


Five Times That Scout and Sniper Definitely Weren't Friends

by AlexKingOfTheDamned



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief Non-Con, M/M, RED/BLU relationship, cross-faction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're enemies, they definitely can't be friends. It doesn't matter if the kid's smile is the reason the sun rises or the old man's voice is what people tell stories to their grandchildren about. They're enemies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is some non-con in the first chapter and a pretty graphic spur-of-the-moment operation in a later chapter, as well as a bonus smut chapter at the end. 
> 
> I'd like to apologize in advance for any confusion I may cause with the "Cardinal" and "Cadet" titles, but since my headcanon doesn't involve respawn or health points or doppelgangers, I thought that during a genuine war, the two sides might have names other that "the reds" and "the blus" since that sounds kind of immature. I tried to give it a more serious twist by making it seem more legitimate I guess? Sorry if I just screw anyone up. 
> 
> Also completely unbea'd so sorry for any silly mistakes

It doesn't take long for the Scout to realize that he's absolutely screwed. He thought he had the entirety of the Red Territory memorized. He could've sworn he could run through their entire territory with his eyes closed. But apparently when he's blindly zipping around corners and ducking into any small space he could manage to fit into because he nearly got his head blown off by an unseen Sniper, trying to remember where he ran wasn't on the top of his mind. 

When everything seems to be clear of any enemies, he hides around a corner of a wall, panting as he attempts to catch his breath, wiping some of the blood off of his cheek that was dripping down his face from where the bullet had grazed him. He looks around, trying to figure out just where exactly he was, before deciding to run again before he got caught. He didn't know what would be worse at this point. Getting more lost or a RED running into him. 

He glances behind himself for a brief second while running, before smacking into something, or someone, at full force, and he falls back and lands right on his ass. "Shit-!" He scrambles back up to his feet when he sees who exactly he ran into. An enemy medic. His eyes widen when he realizes he's completely out of ammo, fumbling as he reaches for his bat, starting to back up, only to hit the wall behind him.

"Shitshitshitshit-" He mumbles under his breath, feeling his heart beat in his throat.

The medic is tall and blonde, pressed perfectly into his uniform, red tie cinched up tight around his neck and red gloves shiny on his hands. He’s lanky, but clearly more muscled than the scout in front of him. He’s nothing like the head Cardinal medic, the German coot, he seems much more refined and far more chiseled, and certainly younger.

“Well,” he speaks, taking a step back towards the cornered scout. He’s got a sly accent that the scout can’t identify, some British shit or something. “What have we got here? A little lost mouse.” 

He advances another step. The crack from the scout’s bat hitting his palm is loud, but the catch is effortless. He’s much stronger than scout when he wrenches it from his hand and tosses it aside. 

“I was looking for a test subject,” the medic drawls, his voice thick with sugary malevolence. The rubber of his glove squeaks when he captures scout’s chin in his fingers. He catches a wayward and clumsy punch from scout’s left fist, and spins him around to crush him into the wall like he weighs as much as the baseball bat he’d just tossed away. “I think you’ll do nicely. How tall are you?”

Scout nearly squeaks as he’s pressed up against the wall, struggling against the much stronger man's hold, knowing all of his efforts are pretty much useless. He knows he's fucked if he can't get away. His teeth grit as he squirms against the man now pushed up to him, breathing hard.

"What the fuck are you doing?! Get ya hands off a me, don't fuckin' touch me, let me go!" He shouts in a panic, trying his best to kick at the medic, doing everything he possibly can to get away. But by now he knows its no use. He's gonna die. Or worse. "The hell is wrong with you?! Ya fuckin' creep, let me go!" He yells again, his entire body tense.

“Are you going to struggle the whole way back or do I have to break your knees? I will if I have to, but I’d really prefer you come quietly. And I’m sure you’d prefer to walk, unless you’d rather part with your dignity,” the medic croons, sliding a hand down scout’s chest. “You’re very young, I’m sure all of your organs are in perfect working order. I might indulge a little before the harvest.” 

His eyes widen when he feels the wandering hands. He should have let the sniper kill him when he had the chance. It was looking like a better option than where this was heading. He shakes his head as he lets out an uncomfortable chuckle, struggling against him even more now. 

"No, nope, nope, my organs are fuckin' gross believe me, you don't want anythin' to do with them, I swear," He says, trying desperately to get the other off of him.

“I think I’d like to be the judge of that,” the medic looms over him a little taller, presses just a little bit closer. 

That gloved hand wanders a little lower, right into bad-touch territory, when suddenly there’s a loud crack and the two of them are showered with dust. The medic whirls off scout, still holding his wrist tight, and they both look at a bullet hole in the concrete wall they were pressed against, just inches away from where the medic’s head had been. 

The medic’s comm. crackles to life, close enough that scout can hear a deep, steady inhale, and then the slow drawl of an Australian speaking carefully,

“That was a warning shot. We’re at war. Not a brothel. Kill him or let him go.”

The scout definitely recognizes that voice. It isn't the first time he's heard it. It had to have been the head Sniper, the one that had tried to kill him only minutes before. And now he was. Well, it seemed like he was saving him. Or at least saving him from something. He would have been in complete shock if he wasn't still so terrified of his much too close encounter. 

He takes the chance while he can, swinging another punch at the distracted medic with his free hand, just trying to get him off of him.

The punch connects with the medic’s jaw, but he doesn’t release the scout. Instead he grabs on just a little tighter, and swings the smaller man crashing into the wall.

“What do you expect you’ll do?” the medic says, still holding on to the disoriented scout and looking around wildly, trying to find the source of the bullet. “We’re on the same side, you can’t fire on me! You’ll get in too deep for that.” 

“Well,” the sniper’s gun cocks so loudly that scout can hear it over the medic’s comm. “One, I outrank you.”

“That doesn’t give you permission to shoot your inferiors!” 

The scout hears a heavy sigh over the comm. that just makes him anxious. When the sniper starts talking again, his tone is very exaggerated. 

“Why, officer, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m only a sniper, not a magical bullet telekinetic. He stepped right in the way of that scout right as I pulled the trigger.” 

The medic seems to get the point, because the next thing scout knows, his wrist has been released.

Scout stumbles a bit as he rushes for his bat, kicking it up into his hand, holding onto it tight. He snaps his head up to the medic, tempted to just beat him senseless, but even he isn't dumb enough to stick around. Before the other can even blink, the scout seemed to disappear, darting away in what he hopes is the right direction to his own base.

He was lost before he even started turning back, however, and lost is a rather permanent state. Scout does a lot of ducking and hiding while various Red soldiers and scouts and spies slink around. He’d do just about anything for a red tee shirt right about now. 

When he finally sees a stretch that he remembers, he charges for it, and almost crashes directly into a red scout turning the corner. The freckled and snaggle-toothed man doesn’t even have the chance to appraise the Blu scout before he has a bat cracked directly into his face, and he drops to the ground like a sack of flour. 

Blood is spattered across the scout’s blue shirt and his face. He might have swung a little preemptively, but after his run-in with the medic, he’s not taking any chances. 

He hears a familiar drawl, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He looks down into the caved-in face of the other scout and realizes the voice is coming from the comm. unit still strapped to the remainder of his head. 

“What?” he pants.

“I said, nice shot,” the voice crackles over the comm. again. 

The Scout take a quick glance around, making sure there was no one that would be able to see him as he reaches down, taking the comm. unit off of the dead scout's head, strapping it to his own. 

"You uh… talkin' to me, right?" He cocks an eyebrow, looking around again, seeing if he can spot the Sniper from where he was standing. "Why?"

“That bluey was a fool. Owed me money. Now I can take it from his locker an’ nobody will miss it,” the Australian drawls. “You probably shouldn’t just stand there, dingus. Don’t even got a gun on you.” 

"Eh." He gives a shrug. "Ain't no one around right now anyway. I got it I got it, I ain't stupid." He says, heading back toward his own base anyway fairly quickly. "Where the hell are ya anyway? You like, watchin' me or somethin'?" He asks, his breathing sounding a bit heavy as he ran.

“I watch everyone,” the sniper responds coolly. “Kinda my job. You just takin’ the comm. with you? I probably shouldn’t let you do that. Your engineers might be able to reverse-whatever the talking into listening.”

"Ah, I'm not too worried about that. Hell, what's the worst that could happen, they don't know I got it," He says with a smirk, finally catching sight of his own territory. "Guess I should ah, probably thank you for savin' me back there or somethin'. Guess not all a-you are a piece a shit."

“Not a piece of shit. I’ve moved up in rank,” the sniper sits back in his nest, officially losing sight of the young scout, and rests his rifle across his lap. He takes his hat off and scrubs his hand over his short hair. “If you’d… like, smash the comm. that’d be dandy. I don’t really wanna get heat for handin’ one over to the Cadets. I guess you wouldn’t really care though, would’ya?”

"Got that right." He says with a laugh, stopping once he's sure he's safe to take a minute to catch his breath. "Whatevah, I'm probably gonna get in trouble too. Hey, I owe ya though, don't tell anyone. Gonna keep it between us." 

“You don’t owe me squat,” the sniper bristles a little, and sits up straighter. “We’re on opposite sides of the war, kid. You shouldn’ta even been over here alone, ain’t you ever heard of the buddy system?”

“Buddies are for chumps. I’ll see ya around!” is the last thing he says before taking off the comm. unit and throwing it on the ground, giving it a good swing of his bat, smashing it into pieces.

“No you won’t- agh!” The static resulting in the sniper’s ear is enough to make him yell, and he rips it off his head. He jams his pinkie in his ear with a laugh. “Stupid kid,” he mutters, looking out the window at the distant Cadet territory. “Gonna get ‘imself killed.”


	2. Chapter 2

“We’re gettin’ slaughtered out here!”

 

Scout hits the deck as the skull of another soldier in demolition splatters in the resulting crack of a long-range rifle shot. The spray of blood is hot on the back of his neck as he army-crawls to cover.

 

“Too much more of this and we’ll have to retreat!” a Cadet soldier falls into cover right beside the scout, panting and clutching his shovel to his chest. “There’s a sniper out there somewhere and if we can’t weed him out it’s hopeless!”

 

There’s a distant screech of someone else getting downed by a well-placed shot. The soldier kneels up just a bit to look around, trying to spot the sniper.

 

“See ‘im?” Scout pants.

 

“I see him! He’s – ” CRACK.

 

Scout shuts his eyes against another spray of blood.

 

"We gotta get someone up there!" Scout calls through his comm. to his teammates, hoping to get through to somebody as he scrambles up onto his feet, looking around desperately to see if he can spot the Sniper, all while trying to keep his head. "We need a freakin' Spy up there or some shit, we're all gonna get shot down if we don't stop this guy!" He zips around a corner, just narrowly missing a bullet to his head.

 

“You rang?”

 

Scout turns just in time to see a spy approaching, and Scout is pleased to see that it isn’t the head spy. That frog always got on the scout’s nerves. He slumps against the wall in relief to see a dark-skinned fellow instead.

 

“Have you spotted him?” the spy asks, peering around the corner. “I see his laser tracker… if you can give me just a moment of cover, I should be able to track it back to his rifle.”

 

"Yeah yeah, sure I can do that. Just make sure ya find his ass, I almost got my head blown off six too many times." He says, scanning the area to make sure that the two of them were safe as the spy tried to track down the sniper.

 

Two more heads splatter before the spy gives a noise of satisfaction, and spins back into cover.

 

“I’ve located him. He’s in the munitions tower, second floor from the top. Should be easy to get by, but I’ll need your help. If he gets past me, it’ll be on you to stop him before he gets away. He’s got too many of our men on his hands to let him get away. You’re faster than anyone, if there’s anyone that could get him it’s you.”

 

"Right, got it." He says with a cocky grin, taking no time to run past the spy, trying to keep hidden as he makes his way up to the tower, dodging bullets on his way. He figures the spy could meet him up there. He knew where he was going.

 

He waits for the spy to catch up on the floor right beneath the tower, rolling his eyes once he finally reaches him. "'bout time you caught up." He says, his voice low. Or at least as low as his voice got. "So what, you gonna go up there and I stay behind ya to catch him if he gets away, right?"

 

“That’s the plan,” the spy says as he deploys his cloaking device, and takes the form of another Cardinal sniper with pale skin and beady black eyes. “If I don’t come back down in five minutes, just run. And get as many people to retreat with you as we can. Orders be damned, if we can’t get this sniper we’re dead anyway. Schematics for a secret back door that may not even exist isn’t worth this.”

 

"Yeah yeah, I got it." He says, giving the other a thumbs up.

 

He waits a few seconds after the other makes his way up the stairs, before following behind him quietly. He didn't care about orders, he wanted to see the face of the guy who was killing off his teammates one by one.

 

He sneaks up the stairs and peaks his head around the corner, catching a glimpse of what appeared to be the two snipers. He easily is able to tell the difference between the actual Sniper and his disguised team mate. Though, he swears he recognizes the enemy sniper.

 

His eyes widen. It was him. The head sniper. Everyone Cadet knows what he looks like, he’s way too deadly to be anonymous. He’s the one who had saved him several days previous. And now he was going to be partially responsible for his death. He couldn't help but feel extremely guilty. He couldn't just kill the guy who saved him, he owed him! His mind races trying to figure out how to not kill this man. He shifts his weight to one leg, the floorboards of the stairs beneath him letting out a creak, alerting the enemy sniper.

 

“Wha – ” The sniper at the window turns around and stares in confusion at the second sniper. “What the hell are you doin’ here? Git’yer own nest, mate, I’m on a roll.”

 

His eyes dart down to the knife in the other sniper’s hand, and he figures out what’s going on before the disguised Cadet gets his bearings. He swipes the barrel of his rifle at the knees of the spy and the cloak drops as he hits the floor.

 

When the knife buries in his calf, he lets out a yowl, and slams his heel into the forehead of the fallen spy, cracking his head into the concrete floor under him. He falls still, his hand falling off the handle of the knife still dug into his leg.

 

“For fuck’s sake,” the sniper growls, grabbing the handle of the butterfly knife and yanking it out of the muscle with a string of colorful words that scout can only assume are swears, but he’s not even sure they’re in English.

 

He regrets shifting his weight because the sniper’s eyes snap up to him in the shadows and he has an smg pointed at him in the next heartbeat.

 

"Hey, hey, woah hey!" Scout says, putting his hands up as he comes out from the shadows, his bat behind him, only moving to turn his comm. off, making sure no one on his side heard him conversing with the sniper. "Don't even think about shootin' me, I just saved your ass. I owed ya, remember?" He says, his heart racing in his chest as he stares down the barrel of the gun.

 

The sniper takes a second longer before his expression of anger melts into recognition, and then into annoyance.

 

“You’re that scout! Are you kidding me? What the hell are you doing up here?” he doesn’t lower the gun as he drops the butterfly knife blade-down so it sticks directly into the dead spy’s chest.

 

"I was, uh.." He lets out an awkward chuckle, before shrugging. "Well I was supposed to be helpin' him kill ya incase you know… you got away?" He clears his throat, realizing he wasn't really helping his case in trying not to be killed. "But, seein' that it was my good friend, I changed my mind. You're welcome."

 

“Good friend? I’m not your good friend!” the sniper stands up a little straighter, blood seeping down his pant leg, sticky and stinking. “We are on _opposite sides of a war_ in case you forgot since comin’ up the stairs. On the off chance you’re color blind, let me explain. I’m wearing _red_ ,” he tugs at the collar of his shirt. “And _you’re_ wearing _blue_.”

 

"I mean…" He glances down at his blood stained shirt, looking back at the other with a smart ass grin. "I got some red on me. I was just returnin' the favor, could ya put that gun down or somethin'? It's makin' me uncomfortable."

 

“No, I won’t put down the gun! I should shoot you where you stand, you stupid kid. I shouldn’ta saved you the first time. If someone catches us talkin’ like this they’ll gut us both. We’re _not. Friends_. If you don’t start runnin’ I’ll start shootin’,” the sniper barks.

 

The scout lets out an annoyed huff, glancing down to his bat which he had dropped. "What, I don't even get a thank you? Damn, rude enough your rejectin' my offer to be friends but I just saved ya freakin' life." He bends down to pick his bat back up. "But _fine_. Guess I'll just leave then." He says before turning on his heel, darting back down the stairs, leaving the Sniper to be, turning his comm. unit back on.

 

"The spy's freakin' dead, we gotta retreat or we'll all be dead! Go, go, go, we gotta get outta here!" He warns his team as he races out of the building, looking like he was in a panic.

 

A gout of dirt sprays directly in front of the scout and he skids to a halt as he realizes that it was a bullet from the sniper. He whirls around and looks back up at the window, catching a gleam of the sniper’s barrel.

 

Sniper slumps back in his seat when he catches sight of the scout’s middle finger through the scope of his rifle, and knocks his hat off his head to rest on his back by the beaded string.

 

“ _Dumb_ fuckin’ kid,” he huffs as he hears his fellow Cardinals start to cheer their victory. He looks over his shoulder at the dead body of the spy and wipes his hand over his face. The scout saved him. He would have gotten that knife in his back instead of his leg if he hadn’t alerted him to the spy’s presence.

 

What the hell was he thinking? That stupid Cadet is gonna get both of them killed if he keeps trying to make friends. He hikes his boot up onto the crate and rucks up the bottom of his pants to get a look at the wound still bleeding, and tries very hard not to think about the scout.


	3. Chapter 3

The last thing the scout heard was a loud explosion. It must've come from a rocket, or a bomb, but the next thing he knew he was pinned under a heap of wood, his ears ringing from the explosion.

 

He looks around, struggling to keep consciousness for a few minutes, knowing that if he lost it, he'd surely be dead. As soon as he's able to think straight, he knows he has to get out of there. He tries to push the wood off of him, giving a grunt when it wouldn't budge. He was completely pinned under it.

 

"Fuck…" He mumbles to himself, looking around to see if anyone on his side was approaching that could give him a hand. But it was useless. He couldn't really see anything from the angle he's at.

 

"Hey!" He calls out. "Someone help me! Shit, I'm stuck!" He shouts, hoping that someone would be able to hear him. Someone on his side, anyway.

 

The sounds of gunfire and additional explosions drown out scout’s voice. He tries to shift again, but his moving dislodges some of the wood and rubble and he feels a very sharp and very large splinter of wood press against his spine. He goes still in an instant, going cold with fear. If the damn thing caves, he’s gonna get skewered like an insect.

 

“Guys!”

 

He shields his eyes from a spray of dirt when a rocket hits the ground only a few feet away. When he opens his eyes again, he watches a soldier fall dead to the ground, his face distorted in a frozen expression of pain.

 

“Guys, come on!”

 

A bullet hits the pile he’s trapped under and more rubble slides down the front, and just like that, the light is completely blocked out and the scout is entombed.

 

Scout takes a deep breath, staring up in the darkness, hearing gunshots and explosions all around him. He knows this is it. The entire thing could come down any second and he'd be dead. And he's completely helpless. He can barely move enough to breath at this point, and he's afraid to move even that much. He knows if he just stays there he dies. He knows if he moves he'll die. He isn't sure that calling for someone is worth the effort. What if they can't even hear him? If it's a RED then they're sure to kill him when they find him anyway.

 

He gives it another shot anyway.

 

"Someone, help!" He calls out again. He's thankful he's normally loud to begin with. "Seriously! Even if you're a fuckin' red, I aint gonna kill ya, I swear, just help me out!" He screams, hoping someone could hear over the explosions and gunshots.

 

Nobody comes to help him. Minutes pass, he shouts himself hoarse. The gunfire dies down and then eventually stops completely, and he realizes that everyone around him is either dead or gone.

 

He’s completely alone, and completely trapped. This wasn’t how he expected he would die.

 

He closes his eyes for a few minutes, wondering how long it'll take for the entire thing to come down. What if it doesn't come down at all? What if he's there for days until he dies of starvation?

 

"Shit.." He begins to mumble to himself. "Got yourself in a pretty fuckin' shitty situation this time, didn't ya? This is how it's gonna end. I'm gonna die crushed by some fuckin' wood. Couldn't have out run this one. Nope, not this time. Damn, I wish I could've gotten laid like. At least once. Just once. I guess this is better than bein' burned alive. That never really looks fun."

 

He's not sure why he's just talking to himself, but it seems to be helping how horrified he really is. "I wonder how my ma's gonna find out. Man, if I do make it outta this, it'll at least be a fun story to tell. I ain't gonna make it out though if everyone is gone, shit. Probably gonna be found by a fuckin' red and they're gonna shoot me if I ain't already dead."

 

When he finally talks himself quiet, he presses his forehead into the dirt to cool it off. It’s definitely getting warmer under the wood, and he figures he should probably preserve as much air as he can just in case he does get found. It’d suck if he talked up all the oxygen just minutes before he woulda been rescued.

 

But, then again, if there isn’t any light getting in there probably isn’t any air either. Sweat slides down his back and pools in the dip created by the too-close-for-comfort wood splinter. If it can even be called a splinter. It’s fucking huge. Wood sword. Stupid fucking wood sword.

 

He doesn’t realize that he’d fallen asleep until he jolts awake. He has no idea how much time has passed, he doesn’t even remember closing his eyes. Although he can hardly tell the difference between closed eyes and open eyes, it’s so dark. It feels cooler, though, so maybe the sun has gone down. The sweat on his body has dried, making him feel sticky and all the dust is clinging to him. Shit. He’s hungry, too. This fucking sucks.

 

Everything is so quiet except for his breathing that he perks up at the sound of crunching dirt. Bootfalls. Just one set of feet, moseying slowly through what’s gotta be a field of death out there. Scout hears a low whistle, and the metallic sound of the butt of a gun hitting the gravel.

 

His eyes widen slightly. Maybe he can be saved after all. If his voice even works.

 

"Hey!" He calls out, though his voice is hoarse and quiet. His throat stings from the dry air and his talking isn't doing anything to help, but he tries to ignore it. "Hey, hey, I'm under here, you gotta help!" He croaks out, but he figures it useless. He can barely hear himself there's no way anyone else would have possibly heard him under all of the rubble. "Please, help."

 

He holds his breath to see if the stranger heard him. There’s some scuffling of gravel and a muttered “What the hell?”

 

He recognizes the sound of a gun being raised and cocked. But not just any gun. Scout does his fair share of sitting around doing nothing during down time, just listening. He can identify most any gun just by the way it sounds when it engages. That particular set of clicks belonged to a bolt-action rifle.

 

A bolt-action _sniper_ rifle.

 

“Is someone there?” calls out a voice that scout definitely recognizes by now.

 

"Here, I'm here, down here!" He calls out to the best of his ability. "I've been stuck under here, you gotta get me out, c'mon"

 

The boots crunch a little bit closer. “Under – here? Under this pile? Shit, mate, how long you been under there?”

 

The scuffling is louder now, the scout can hear the distinct sounds of rubble being lifted and scattered and tossed aside. The splinter pressed to his back actually lifts up a bit when some of the weight is taken off the top.

 

"Fuck if I know." He grumbles, though mainly to himself, coughing a bit as he speaks.

 

The rush of cool air against his face as more and more of the rubble is lifted off of him is more than refreshing. As is the weight taken off of his chest, he inhales deeply, the cool air soothing his burning throat. He’s still too afraid to move too much until all of the rubble was lifted off of him.

 

When a plank of wood is removed from in front of the scout’s face, he can see that the sky has gone from the pale blue of midday to the dark red and violet of sunset.

 

“Fuck, thanks man,” he says, and that’s when the sniper looks down and they make eye contact.

 

Both of them are frozen in place for a moment. The sniper still has the board held in both hands, and his eyes are narrowed behind yellow-lensed sunglasses that he really had no business wearing at sunset. Scout shrinks down a little bit with a strained smile as a frown grows across the sniper’s thin, stubbled face.

 

And then he puts the board back down over the hole, covering the scout back up, and overwhelming him with darkness again.

 

"Hey-!" He squeaks when as he begins to panic again. He was so close to getting saved, of course _this_ asshole has to be the one who finds him. And leaves him. "You... you ain't really just… gonna leave me here, are ya? I don't wanna die, not like this! At least take me out and shoot me I just don't wanna die down here, c'mon!"

 

“Oh, don’t worry. Eventually the coyotes’ll come out and when they finish pickin’ at all the corpses out here they’ll come after you,” the sniper says conversationally, releasing the bolt from his rifle so he won’t accidentally fire. “Gettin’ ripped apart by dogs is probably a pretty quick way t’ go. Faster than starvin’ to death at least.”

 

"C'mon, don't just leave me here! Hey, if ya set me free I won't mention anythin' to anyone, I won't even bother you about it, just please don't make me stay down here!" He whines. "God dammit, just let me out, I don't wanna get eaten."

 

The sniper pauses in his retreat and kicks a boot up on the helmet of a dead Cadet soldier. The kid’s voice is cracking he’s so freaked out.

 

“I do that and we ain’t “even” anymore and you’ll feel the need to “save” me again. I’ve still got deep tissue damage from the last time you tried to save me, an’ you expect me to dig you out an’ save your life?”

 

"Deep tissue damage is better than bein' dead if ya ask me, just… c'mon, please let me out." He's begging at this point, desperate to be free of his trap, to be able to _move_. "Please, I said I won't bother ya no more, just let me out!"

 

Everything is quiet for a while. The scout is chilled by a breeze blowing through the cracks in his prison. A dog wails somewhere in the distance. The sniper is so still and quiet that scout thinks maybe he evaporated.

 

“Please?” he ventures one more time. He thinks maybe if he’s a little less obnoxious than usual it might come in handy, so he brings his voice pitch down and tries to crank up the pitiful.

 

No answer.

 

“How’ll ya sleep at night knowin’ ya left me to die under here?”

 

No answer, still. He hears the sniper sniff.

 

“What about my ma? What’ll she think when I never come home?”

 

“It’s war, kiddo. People die at war. Dozens of ‘em are dead out here right now. Gotta be at least thirty sets of parents out here in just a stone’s throw who’ll never see their kids again, or wives back home they’ll never kiss again, kids they’ll never see off to school again. That’s just a side effect of war.”

 

"Yeah, but don't tell me ya wouldn't feel pretty shitty after just leavin' me down here." He says, the pitiful tone in his voice starting to sound more and more genuine. "C’mon, I'll do anything for ya if ya just let me outta here, please."

 

The sniper sighs and leans against the chain link fence directly to his left. He takes his glasses off and tucks them into his vest pocket in order to massage the bridge of his nose. The way the kid sounds is bordering on heartbreaking, despite all the effort sniper has put into steeling himself so he can sleep at night after popping heads all day every day. This is why he tries to avoid conversation altogether. Dead people he can deal with, it’s the living that he can’t cope with.

 

“Look, kid.” He knocks his hat off his head again and shakes out his short hair. “We can’t keep doin’ this. I’m just tryin’ to make a buck and get home alive an’ You’re draggin’ me into this Shakespearian shit. We ain’t friends. We ain’t allies. I’m not here to save you. I’m supposed to shoot you on sight, no exceptions.”

 

"What the hell do you think I'm here for? For the fun of it? I don't wanna die! If I'm gonna die it's gonna be quick- I'm gonna get blown to pieces or shot in the head or some shit, I'm not out here to get fucking crushed or eaten or starve t' death! If ya wanna kill me just… just fuckin' do it, but don't just leave me down here to die, that's just cruel, c'mon. I ain't threatenin’. Not now anyway, I just wanna make it outta here." He whines, trying his hardest to keep himself from trembling. "Please, c'mon, I swear, I'll do fuckin' anything, just let me outta here."

 

The sniper levers himself down with his rifle to sit against the pile of rubble, and tips his head back across a beam. He removes the board from in front of the scout’s face and tosses it aside.

 

He’s quiet for a while, watching the shadows slink lower on the building across the bloodied courtyard.

 

“Why _are_ you here, kid?” he asks quietly.

 

He takes another deep breath, the fresh air feeling great. He shifts just slightly, his entire body stiff. "Like you said. We ain't allies. We ain't friends. And I ain't tellin' you any-a my personal business." He grumbles, looking up at the sniper.

 

The sniper hums a laugh. “Fair enough,” he nods, cocking his head in understanding. He straightens his legs out in front of him and crosses his ankles. “I’ll dig you out on one condition, alright? Next time I see you, I shoot you on sight. So you better stay outta my way.”

 

"Yeah, yeah, sure whatevah, just get me the hell outa here, alright?" He says with a huff.

 

Part of him curses the fact that they are on opposing sides. The sniper didn't really seem like that bad of a guy. And he wouldn't deny that he was pretty damn lonely himself. Some friends would actually be nice. But he knows even thinking about it is a bad idea. There's no way. He just slightly wishes there was. There had to have been a reason they kept running into each other and saving each other's asses, right?

 

The sniper reaches down into the pile and seizes the scout’s wrist. “Come on, wriggle the other one out here,” he coaches, and then takes him by the other wrist as well. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”

 

He pulls him by the forearms out through the hole he’d created in the front, tugging until he was about halfway out, but his sneaker catches on the splinter of wood that had been sticking into his back. He doesn’t have time to tell the sniper before he’s dragged all the way out of the pile, and his sneaker is left behind as the heap caves in behind him.

 

However, sniper’s not quite done yet as he drags the kid directly to his feet and sets him up. He lifts the kid’s hat from the ground and sticks it on his head, a little crooked.

 

“Take this,” he picks a shotgun up off the ground and hands it to the kid. “Keep yourself safe. And don’t lemme catch you again or you definitely won’t make it home to your ma.”

 

The scout looks down at the shot gun that was handed to him, before back up at the sniper with slight confusion. He doesn't want to make any assumptions but from the looks of it the Sniper was going a bit soft. No. He shook his head. That couldn't be it. He was just thankful that the other saved him is all. He was over thinking things. The moment he started thinking the sniper was getting friendly was the moment that the scout would get attached. He couldn't do that to himself. They were still enemies and they would always be enemies.

 

"Yeah, uh… thanks then." He says, offering the other a small smirk. "Ha, like you could ever catch me anyway."

 

The sniper smiles after him while the dopey kid sprints away one-shoe-off, and puts his hands on his hips with a sigh. He catches the smile and it drops in an instant, and he clears his throat and bends down to scoop up his own rifle.

 

“Shit,” he mutters, fixing his hat on his head again and squinting after the speck of the speedy kid. “Careful, or you’ll end up too deep.”


	4. Chapter 4

The sniper half expected to see the kid again after their last encounter. The twinge in his calf that always made him think of the stupid-ass horse-faced kid is almost completely gone. Several medics offered to heal it up with a jolt from their guns, but even if sniper hadn’t been jumpy about magic medicinal lasers to begin with, he’s been particularly wary of letting medics anywhere near him after what he witnessed the first time he met that dumb scout Cadet.

 

He’s officially been thinking about that kid way too much.

 

If he thinks about it, he’s probably interacted more with that one scout than any other individual on his own side. Being the veteran sniper, he does his fair share of training the young’uns on how to shoot without hitting other Cardinals and without sacrificing their cover. But they blow through pretty quickly, and he never really sees them again. Not until he’s identifying their bodies, anyway.

 

The head Cardinal spy sometimes gets a little too friendly, but he’s pretty sure it’s sarcastic anyway.

The head medic is just plain creepy, with his campy accent and god complex.

The veteran Heavy is a few clowns short of a circus.

The expert pyro isn’t even comprehensible.

The lead engineer makes for good company but not good conversation.

Spending time with the General just leaves his ears ringing.

The top Cardinal scout is an asshole.

And the demolitions expert is much too animated for sniper’s tastes.

 

And there’s no way he’d spend time with anyone who wasn’t the leader of their class. He just has no time to waste on novices who die before he even meets them twice.

 

Some nights get really slow, though, and sniper wishes he had a few friends. Even if he could just have someone to sit with while he cleans his rifle. Someone to share the silence with.

 

Nights like this, sniper leaves the Cardinal base. He’s top of his class, so nobody ever really questions him when he leaves. They figure he’s going out on business. He knows a million and twelve back ways anyway, if the front gates are locked by the time he trudges back.

 

The night is cool. There’s a breeze, and the stars are bright. A bar sounds nice. Maybe he’ll find someone to make conversation with for a little while, maybe he’ll find a home to go to for the night and a bed to share with a lonely young woman whose man is away in the war. Or a young man. He’s not exactly picky.

 

Maybe he’ll find some place playing music. The nearby town is pretty big. Fairly war-torn for obvious reasons, but the majority of the population didn’t have enough money to up and leave when the fighting got too close, and stuck behind. They fill their days with music and fighting to pretend like they’re still in control of their lives. Sniper never visits without his gun.

 

He always passes through the ghetto to get mid-town where the bars and their one functioning casino are. He learned the hard way the first time he tried to go into town down the main street, he got mugged three times in an hour and a half – first for his watch, then his gun, and then his boots. He watches the stars as he goes and steps out of the way as a group of young boys chase a giggling girl. He shouts at her to run faster and she waves back at him with a grin.

 

Most people leave their front doors open and hang out on the porch. He gets whistled at by young women holding babies when they see his colors. Most people in this town have family members in the Cardinals. It’s not exactly a safe space for a Cadet to roam. He’ll wave at them as friendly as he can manage, but looking at them for too long just makes him homesick.

 

He steps out onto the main street just a block away from the bar he frequents the most, but as he passes an alleyway, he hears the distinctive sounds of a fight just within the shadows, and when he pauses to look, he can see the forms of several people all ganging up on one guy.

 

Normally he wouldn’t stop. Street fights aren’t exactly his area. They’re all too close, too fast, and his specialty doesn’t kick in until he’s at least 300 feet away. Anything closer than 100 feet and he’s so far out of his element that he gets stabbed in the leg, as a random example.

 

Normally, he’d keep going. Just walk right into the bar he was headed for and let the guy fend for himself. He probably did something to upset the gang that was kicking the shit out of him, anyway. Gangs don’t tend to jut grab random strangers to beat up because it’s been a slow night.

 

Normally, he wouldn’t even give it a second glance.

 

But, then again, normally, he doesn’t hear that familiar city accent (too familiar at this point, if you ask him) call out to him, high and scared.

 

“Snipah! Holy shit!”

 

He stops just a couple feet away and takes a step back and squints into the darkness of the alley. It’s dim, but he can just barely make out the light blue shade of a Cadet scout uniform shirt. The kid’s first mistake.

 

His hand closes around the strap that holds his rifle to his back, and he takes a step back when the gang of five young men all stare at him.

 

“You _know_ this Cadet scum?” the tallest, apparent leader, snarls, holding scout almost off his tip-toes by the front of his shirt.

 

"Ya gotta help me!" He calls out to him, obviously scared shitless. Despite the fact that he risked his life on a daily basis, this was much different. He was protected then. He wasn't very skilled hand to hand, especially with a gang of people on him. There was no where for him to run and dodge. He didn't handle being cornered very well, or in this case surrounded.

 

When he sees the sniper start to back away, he calls out to him again. "No, this is serious man, fuck they're gonna fuckin' kill me, don't leave me, don't-!" He's cut off by a pretty hard blow to the face, followed by sputtering before he manages to spit some of the blood out of his mouth.

 

“Ay, old man, I asked do you know him?” the leader of the gang asks again, shaking scout by his shirt. His arms are wrenched behind his back by another, bigger member of the gang that could probably join the Cardinals as a heavy if he didn’t look about sixteen years old going by his face.

 

Sniper raises his hands defensively and shakes his head as he takes another step back. “No. I don’t know him,” he says coolly, his face a perfect deadpan. “Obviously don’t know him. Look at his shirt. He’s a Cadet.”

 

“Didn’t think so,” the leader grins, and Scout cries out when his arms are pulled back a little rougher.

 

"C'mon man don't freakin' do this to me! This ain't the battlefield just- Just c'mon!" He says, struggling against the hold of the much stronger man. "Ya just gonna walk away?!" He shouts over to him, shooting him the most pathetic look he could manage. He really had to stop getting himself into life threatening situations.

 

Sniper shrugs. “Sorry, mate. Buddy system.”

 

He turns his back. It shouldn’t be that hard to turn his back. This kid is the enemy. He should be praising one less Cadet head for him to pop on the field. He said he’d shoot the kid the next time he saw him, anyway. That was almost three weeks ago, but he’s sure the kid remembers. He’s glad it doesn’t have to be him who kills him.

 

He shouldn’t be glad. It shouldn’t matter. The kid’s gonna die, and that shouldn’t bother him one bit. The fact that it does has him reeling.

 

A loud cry echoes down the street as scout feels a sharp, intense pain in his side. He's been stabbed before, enough times to know that's exactly what had happened, but never like this. Never this deep and forceful. Usually, on the battlefield, everything was too quick, and he dodged everything too well for anything to do any real damage. They were much shallower. But it was completely different this time.

 

The knife digs into his ribcage and his lung is already filling with blood, leaving him gasping like a fish. The pain sparks up through his chest and suffocates him, striking him almost blind in the flash of agony.

 

Sniper stops dead in his tracks. He recognizes that sound. Even if scout hadn’t made a sound, he would have been able to identify the slick, wet sound of a knife sliding into flesh. His fists clench and the pain in his calf that had been dull for weeks flares up.

 

That scout is the enemy, he reminds himself, and keeps walking. His feet feel as heavy as lead. He’s the enemy. He’s on the other side of the war. He’s the _enemy_.

 

Christ, he’s just a _kid_.

 

Sniper is much too close for his rifle, so he pulls out his smg before he can talk himself out of it, and sprays bullets into the alley. Years of sharpshooting allows him to drop only the targets he wanted to, but scout falls anyway, probably because he’s asphyxiating.

 

He scoops up the kid, leaving several choking young men in the alley behind him as he rushes to the nearest motel. He wasn’t planning on staying in one because they cost a bit, and he needs to save as much money as possible, but he’s gotta fix this kid up. Damn it, he shouldn’t. But he’s gotta.

 

It’s probably because he feels responsible for his life. He’s saved it so many times at this point it’s almost like a pride thing. He can’t let some street hoodlums kill the guy he’s spent so much time trying to keep alive! His mother always told him that he suffered from mother-duck syndrome. That must be what’s happening here.

 

He breathlessly asks for a room with the promise to pay as soon as they’re settled. The scout is gasping in his arms and he barks commands for him to keep breathing, keep talking.

 

“You never stop running your mouth, come on, talk to me. Tell me something. Tell me about your home life. Tell me about your ma,” he says as he lays the young man on the bed and starts to strip off his shirt.

 

Breathing at this point was difficult enough, let alone actually speaking. Every time scout’d open his mouth to say something, he'd just end up sputtering, coughing up blood. He was struggling enough to just stay awake, to keep his eyes open. He knew the moment that he gave in would be the moment that he was done for. He needed to hang in there, he knew he had to. But he didn't know if he could.

 

All he wanted to do was go into the town to get a drink. He knew it was a dumb ass idea, but with all of the life threatening situations he was getting himself into he really felt like he needed one. He just needed to get out. But of course, the moment he tries to get away from it all is the time he comes closest to dying.

 

“Do you n-need anything?” the woman who owns the motel stands in the open doorway anxiously, clutching a dish towel to her chest.

 

“I need a half full glass of water, the tube from your kitchen sink, a knife, that dish cloth and a bottle of whiskey,” the sniper says without skipping a beat. She tosses the cloth to him and rushes off to get the rest of his list.

 

He presses the cloth to the scout’s bleeding wound, earning a squirm out of him. “Don’t move,” he barks, tossing his glasses and hat aside so he could see easier. “Scout, come on, you’ve still got one working lung, use it. Breath even, count your breaths. You’re fine.”

 

The scout listens to him, trying to best to keep oxygen flowing into him. The fact that he's panicking and his breathing was slightly rushed probably isn't helping the situation at all. His entire chest heaves as he breathes in and out, despite the burning pain every time his ribcage moved. The room begins to grow dimmer and dimmer as he struggles to stay conscious, his breathing becoming more and shallower.

 

He jolts back into full consciousness when he receives a sharp smack to the face.

 

“I will full on mouth-kiss you to keep you breathing if I have to, boy,” he shouts, shaking him gently with a hold to his jaw. “Don’t dare test me, I’ve put way too much energy into keeping your sorry ass alive to let you go now!”

 

Usually by now he'd make some sort of smart ass comment regarding the mouth-kissing, but he's much too invested on keeping himself breathing to even think about making any sort of comment. He just keeps telling himself over and over that he'll make it out of this, he still has one fully functioning lung, this isn't the first time he's been stabbed.

 

Eventually he calms himself enough to get his breathing back to normal, or at least as normal as he can manage, trying his best not to squirm in pain as the sniper applies more pressure to his wound.

 

The woman finally comes back with the rest of the materials sniper asked for, and dumps them on the bed. He grabs for the bottle first and takes a shallow swig before lifting the lip to scout’s mouth and encouraging him to drink.

 

“Yeah, it burns, I know,” he says when the scout coughs. “But it’ll calm your nerves and dull the pain.”

 

He dumps some of the liquid onto the dish cloth and presses it into the wound again. Scout yelps and arches at the burn, but sniper pushes him down by his chest, telling him it’s as close as they’ll get to disinfecting the wound.

 

“This next part is really gonna hurt,” sniper says, taking the half-glass of water from the woman and dragging the side table over to set it down. He grabs the sink hose and saws it in half with the knife she provided, and presses a knee to the scout’s stomach to keep him in place.

 

“Try not to squirm.”

 

The words aren’t good for much, though, because the next thing the scout knows, the two halves of the hose are lined up and pushed directly through the stab wound and into his lung.

 

The Scout lets out a scream that echoes through the room, and could probably be heard through out the building. He would have been squirming and thrashing from the pain if the sniper didn't have him pinned down by his stomach against the bed. He nearly passes out from the pain alone. He sort of wishes that he actually had because he wouldn't have felt it nearly as much.

 

“Hard part’s over,” the sniper says as he climbs off of scout, putting one of the hose ends in the glass of water, and lifting the other to his mouth. It tastes foul, but that’s the least of their problems as he closes his lips over the end of the tube and starts to blow.

 

The water turns red in an instant when the blood flows into the cup, the water flowing back in to help the current along. The more the sniper blows, the higher the cup fills, and the easier it gets for the scout to breathe.

 

The woman stands stock still in the doorway, clutching her heart and gasping every now and then. A small crowd of other patrons in the motel has crowded behind her to watch, but the two men are far too absorbed in their work to notice.

 

When nothing but air bubbles are flowing out of the tube into the cup of bloody water, the sniper finally sits back. He’s feeling a little light-headed, but scout is breathing easier, so he counts that as a win. He lifts the whiskey-soaked rag and wipes it over his sweaty forehead, and shrugs his vest off his shoulders to pile on the floor.

 

“Feelin’ any better?” he asks the scout, gently pulling the tubes from his body before asking the woman for the needle and thread from whatever first aid kit she’s bound to have. He scowls at the crowd that had been behind her until they scatter.

 

"I- kinda," He finally manages to get some words out of his mouth, even if they are fairly weak. "Shit." He groans softly, resting his head back against the pillows as he stares up at the ceiling, the pain still stinging at his side, but it was to be expected. He tries his best to ignore it. He glances over at the other man, shaking his head. "A course it had to a been fuckin' you who shows up to save me though, right? I swear, I'm not doin' it on purpose."

 

“I don’t really believe you,” the sniper says, taking the needle and thread from the woman at the door and fishing money out of his pants pocket to give her for both the room, and to replace her destroyed sink hose. When she finally leaves, he closes the door behind them and sinks into the arm chair beside the scout to set into stitching his wound.

 

“Where’d ya learn to do that?” the scout asks breathlessly.

 

“Saw pops do it once on a pregnant sheep what got attacked by a dingo when I was eight. Never forgot it,” the sniper says wearily. “Then did it to myself ‘bout fifteen years ago when I got a pistol to the side.” He stops talking, and looks down at his boots. “Ah – sorry. For not stoppin’ it before this happened. I guess I’m just tryin’ to pretend this whole weird thing between us hasn’t been happenin’.”

 

The scout rolled his eyes, tensing every now and then as the sniper stitched him up, ignoring the pain to the best of his abilities. "Yeah, thanks for that. I woulda fuckin' saved you, no questions asked if you were in that situation." He huffs, closing his eyes. He was exhausted. "Whatevah, ya came back to save me, I guess that counts for somethin'. Thanks for that."

 

Sniper pauses in his stitching and looks up at the scout. He’s so young, Christ. It’s probably that juvenile naïveté that compels him to save anybody in danger. That’s gotta be it.

 

“Why?” he asks before he can overthink the consequences. “Why would you save me? Why did you save me the first time? I don’t get your thinkin’ do you expect that we’re friends now? Are you lookin’ for danger, is that it? You a thrill seeker?”

 

"Maybe" He says with a chuckle, before his grin fades, shaking his head. "Nah, I got my personal reasons, I guess. But like ya said." He lets out a slight sigh, hoping the other wouldn't catch it. "'We ain't friends'. So I ain't gonna tell ya any of my personal reasoning. But if ya wanted t' know, you seem like a pretty decent guy. Maybe that's why, I dunno."

 

Sniper stares at the kid in silence for a while. Nobody ever thought he was a decent guy. Not apart from his parents, anyway. He finishes off the last few stitches and bites off the thread.

 

He clears his throat as he pushes the side table back to where it goes and dumps the bloody water out the window. “I ain’t a medic, so those stitches are just t’ keep you from bleedin’ out while you’re here. I’d say you should see a doc as quick as you can, to fix whatever’s wrong on the inside. Didn’t stitch up the hole in your lung, after all.”

 

Scout sucks in a breath, an expression of discomfort spreading across his face. He had a problem with doctors before he joined this damn war. Being around all of the medics only made his fear worse, and the run in he had about weeks ago really wasn't helping. He shook his head.

 

"Nah. I'm, uh. I'm sure I'll be jus' fine. I'll heal up myself, no big deal." He assures the other. There was no way he was going to see a doctor.

 

Sniper raises his eyebrows at the younger man. “No big deal. You got a hole in your lung. That’s a big deal.”

 

The expression on the scout’s face is visibly uncomfortable, and he lets out a sigh, scrubbing his hand over his face.

 

“Look, I can’t hold your hand on the way there. If we were on the same side I could escort you to the medic myself an’ make sure he don’t lay his hands on you. It ain’t even like I could throw on a blue shirt and walk you there, people know my face. You wanna make it home to your ma, you gotta get that hole fixed up.”

 

"I'm not goin' to a fuckin' doctor. Maybe I'll be discharged or some shit, I don't care, but I ain't goin' to a doc. Not gonna happen." He refuses more upfront this time. Nothing the Sniper could really say would convince him to go to see a doctor. He just wasn't going to do it. It wasn't an option. "Like you said, I still got one workin' lung."

 

“Yeah, and that’ll keep you breathin’ right up until you try to move around. Scouts are supposed to be light on their feet. What kinda scout do you think you’ll be if you can’t even jog without collapsing? Just take one-a your mates with you, someone you trust. Have them look after you, if you’re so sure every single medic’s a creep,” the sniper crosses his legs with a frown.

 

"I'm not fuckin' doin' it. I don't give a fuck if I collapse and die, I ain't doin' it." He refuses again, a pout creeping on his face. He'd much rather just be discharged all together for being useless to his team than going to get himself fixed. "I don't even have anyone who'd come along with me."

 

Sniper sits back with a sigh, folding his hands together in his lap. “Oh, I see. You’re all alone. That’s why you’ve attached to me like a barnacle. Look, you don’t gotta go to a Cadet doc. There are docs in town here. They don’t got the tech that the docs in the war do, they use old-fashioned methods, but it’s better than dyin’ ain’t it? I can even go get one and bring them here, they probably make house calls. You might feel protected that way. If anyone gonna keep you safe from a creep doc it’s me ain’t it?”

 

"I don't wanna see a freakin' doctor, I don't need one. I ain't even hurting that bad anymore." He protests, though he's starting to give in. He does feel a lot more comfortable with the thought that the sniper would be there with him. The odd security he got while around the enemy sniper probably came from the fact he was saved by him so many times now. "I hate doctors."

 

“I hate ‘em, too. But whether or not you don’t wanna see one, you _do_ need one. You can either give in with some dignity or I can strap you to the bed and force you through an examination.” He crosses his arms like his legs, but when he sees the expression of distress on the scout’s face, he relaxes a little bit. He gets up from the arm chair and sits on the edge of the mattress, pressing the back of his hand into the younger man’s armpit to check his temperature.

 

“You ain’t got a fever. You should be fine if you keep still tonight and just relax, and prepare yourself for a doc visitin’ in the morning. I’ll stay with you until then and get you back to the battlefield safe, but from that point you’re on your own.”

 

"I dunno. That sounds a little too friendly for us not to be friends." He says with a small smirk, easing up a bit, no longer refusing the doctor visit. As long as the sniper was there, he was sure he'd be safe. He still wasn't thrilled with the idea, but it was better than being forced to go alone.

 

Sniper sits back in the chair with a scowl. “If you’d prefer I could just walk out now and let you fend for yourself.”

 

"Well I'm just sayin'!" His grin widens, shifting a bit where he was laying so he could sit up slightly, looking at the Sniper easier. "So what, where you gonna sleep tonight? There's only one bed in here. We gonna spoon?" He asks, wiggling his eyebrows. He's obviously feeling a lot better than before, and he's obviously growing more and more comfortable with the sniper.

 

“Oh, sure,” the sniper snorts. “You can be big spoon.”

 

He gets up and closes the window to stop the draft, and next time he looks over at the scout, he’s wearing a confused expression.

 

“Oh my god, I didn’t mean it ya seppo, unclench. I’m not gonna sleep tonight. I’ll just sit in the chair there and… think, I guess. Clean my rifle. Make sure you don’t stop breathin’ while you sleep.”

 

He lets out a slight sigh of relief, though he couldn't say that he hadn't been imagining what it'd be like to curl up against the Sniper. He bets he's warm. "What, do ya just not sleep, like…ever? Or is this like a one night deal?"

 

“No, I don’t sleep ever, I’m secretly a robot. That’s why I ain’t dead yet,” the sniper says sarcastically, dropping back down into the chair with a sigh. “Would ya go to sleep already? You’ve been stabbed, that don’t exactly give you _more_ energy. Your body could use the rest.”

 

"I don't wanna sleep, what if ya try to kill me or somethin'?" He wonders out loud, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Besides I ain't really tired. I mean, I am, but I don't wanna sleep. I don't like people watchin' me, it weirds me out."

 

“If I wanted to kill you I wouldn’t have saved you,” the sniper looks down at his boots. “I can turn my chair around if it makes you feel better.”

 

"I don't wanna sleep right now anyway. I'm thinkin' too much. Wouldn't be able to if I tried." He says, mindlessly kicking his feet lightly at the end of the bed, before knocking his shoes off. "Probably gonna be up till I talk myself to sleep, honestly."

 

“At least get under the covers, would ya? It’s a cold night,” sniper stands up to help the injured scout wriggle under the quilt. He wedges another pillow under the scout so he can sit up a little straighter without putting a strain on his injury. “If you’re gonna talk at least talk about shit that matters, don’t just run your mouth. I don’t even know your name.”

 

"We ain't even 'friends' though, accordin' to you, why the hell would ya wanna know my name?" He asks. "I mean, I don't know yours either, and barely anyone on my own damn sides knows my name. Though your fuckin' head spy knows it, but I ain't even gonna get into that." He rolls his eyes, obviously having some strong personal feelings against the enemy spy.

 

“You don’t wanna tell me your name, fine. I’ll just keep callin’ you kid,” the sniper says, taking an extra blanket from the back of his chair and sets it beside scout in case he’s not warm enough.

 

"I mean, if you were willin' to tell me your name so I can call ya somethin' other than 'that one sniper who isn't complete shit' I'd be willin' to tell you mine, I guess." He says, looking up at the ceiling counting all of the little ridges in the paint to keep himself from rambling too much.

 

The sniper can’t help but smile at the scout. He’s got a certain kind of charm, for a dumb kid. He takes a spare pillow from the bed and tosses it on the chair to keep himself comfortable and finally settles down, kicking off his boots to cross his sock feet on the corner of the mattress.

 

Should he tell the kid his name? It’s not like his name is a secret, he ain’t a spy. And it’s not like the Cadet superiors don’t already know his name. It just feels like he should withhold the information on principle.

 

Oh, he’s sitting with a goddamn Cadet in a motel room joking about spooning for god’s sake. He can afford to tell the kid his name.

 

“Mundy. Jack,” he says shortly, picking drying blood from his knuckles.

 

"Jack, huh?" He clicks his tongue. He definitely looked like a Jack. "Mine's James. My ma kinda ran out a good names after her fourth kid, I guess. Kinda boring if ya ask me."

 

The sniper raises his eyebrows with a laugh. “Jack and James. Sounds like a nursery rhyme.”

 

He stretches out in his chair and looks the kid over. Now that he’s got a name to put to his face, he suddenly feels a whole lot more real. Maybe this was a bad idea. Now he’s got a name to remember if this kid dies.

 

He reaches for his hat and settles it back on his head, clearing his throat loudly to try and distract himself from that train of thought.

 

Honestly, he should stop asking questions. The more he knows about this kid, the deeper he’ll get. He really should.

 

“How many siblings you got?”

 

"Seven. Eight kids all together if you include me. I'm the youngest. They all suck ass though." He tells him. He doesn't even find it the least bit odd that he's just casually talking to the enemy. About his personal life none the less. Because right now, they don't seem like they're at war. They just seem like a pair of friends- No. Not friends. They aren't friends. He needs to keep reminding himself that they aren't.

 

He doesn't see why the other is so against them being friends, though. He gets it, he get that they're at war. He wouldn't just go up to him in the battlefield and try to be friendly with him. But it's weird now. He doesn't want to say he feels like they're friends even, because it doesn't even feel like that. It's a different feeling, but he can't quite put his finger on it. But it's definitely a good feeling. A good feeling that he knows he needs to get rid of.

 

“I wouldn’t know,” the sniper shakes his head and scatters the scout’s thoughts. “Only child. But combined, my parents have thirteen siblings, so I’ve got more than enough cousins to go around. Most of them are still back home, I think. Haven’t heard of any of them comin’ up here to stick their nose in this war business.”

 

"All-a my brothers are half brothers. None of us except for the pair-a twins share the same dad." He pulls himself up onto the bed even more so he's sitting, until he decides that it's too painful, and slides back down to lay down with a grunt. "That's part-a the reason I moved out here. Couldn't stand any-a my family except for Ma. I'm her favorite." He says with a confident grin.

 

“Oh yeah?” the sniper grins. “You sure about that? Maybe she just gives you the most attention cause you’re her anklebiter.”

 

In between talking about their home lives, the sniper continues to yo-yo in and out of his chair, fetching water or extra pillows for his charge. James. He hopes he’ll forget the kid’s name. He doubts he will.

 

He visits downstairs briefly to assure the owner of the motel that the other man really is okay, and gives her just a little bit more money for her troubles, because when he sees her she’s crying and shaking. He asks her about her husband and finds out that he’s in demolitions in the Cardinals. His name is Ethan. He promises to keep an eye out for Ethan the demoman.

 

When he comes back up to the room, the scout is on his feet and he has to bully the kid back into bed. He’s ornery but submissive for his savior, and slips into bed without a fuss. It helps that the sniper was able to distract him by asking him for stories about his brothers. According to him, he used to prank them all the time and almost never got caught.

 

“What about your cousins?” the kid asks, and that really starts the sniper off, talking about how he used to get picked on all the time because he looked like he was twelve until he was twenty, at which point he started to look like he was fifteen.

 

“Weighed less than a hundred-fifteen pounds until I hit twenty-five and I got fed up with getting’ pushed over by a stiff breeze. Left the country lookin’ for somethin’ to help me get bigger an’ that’s how I got involved in RED an’ experimental medicine. Shot up about five inches, gained about a hundred pounds, and then they put me in the snipin’ department because I used to hunt back home and got pretty good with a scoped hunting rifle. Wasn’t a huge stretch. How’d you wind up a scout? Not skilled enough to be anywhere else or are you just real fast?”

 

"Mostly cause I'm just real fast. Ya gotta be when you got seven older brothers who all hate ya. And I mean, I grew up in the slums, so our house wasn't nearly big enough to run around in. That's how I learned to jump real high too, cause when you can't go forward to get away, you can almost always go up. That's how I ended up a scout, I guess." He crosses his legs over one another, his arms resting behind his head. All of this talking wasn't putting him to sleep like he had originally planned. If anything, it only made him even more awake.

 

Eventually the forgotten bottle of whiskey is remembered and passed between the two of them, if for no other reason than to get the kid to sleep. He doesn’t seem like a heavy drinker, so half a shared bottle should put him to sleep, the sniper hopes. The kid needs his rest if he’s gonna make it through surgery in the morning and back to his base where, hopefully, a medic will jolt him with his gun despite his protests.

 

The alcohol loosens both of their tongues and they start talking about things they maybe shouldn’t. Sniper starts to complain about the lead Cardinal spy, which sends the scout off on his own round of complaints about the man. Neither of them can remember his name, though, so they just call him Lumiere.

 

That sends the sniper off talking about head medic and his mania, which sends scout into a tirade about the head Cadet soldier and the flag pole he has lodged up his ass so far that it’s coming out his ear. From there the conversation turns into a rousing discussion on how patriotism is bullshit, and that eventually turns into how war is bullshit, and by the time the bottle is empty, sniper is talking animatedly about sheep.

 

He’s not sure how long he’s been talking to himself when he looks up and sees the kid is asleep. He doesn’t really care, though, it’s good that he’s sleeping. He starts to dismantle his rifle to clean it, but barely gets halfway through before he’s too sleepy to continue. Maybe he meant to stay up all night, but it wouldn’t hurt him to catch a few winks.

 

A few winks, however, turns into a severe neck cramp at about four in the morning, according to his watch. He tries to get comfortable, but the chair’s back is just too erect for him to relax. One bed be damned.

 

The scout is roused just slightly when the mattress sinks down to his left, and he turns his head sleepily to see the sniper settling down with several inches of space between them, his back turned away from what he thinks is the still-sleeping scout.

 

The scout debates whether or not to say anything to the other. He decides against it, enjoying his company. If the sniper knew he was awake, there'd be no way he'd be laying in bed next to him.

 

He begins to think about the joking offer to spoon earlier, and although he recognizes that they were both completely joking at the time, he can't help but wonder. He's just got a strange urge to curl up next to him. Maybe it’s because he isn't used to other people being in a bed with him. Maybe it's just instinctive, he thinks to himself. It can't possibly have anything to do with how protected he felt around him, or the not-quite-friendship feelings he got talking to him.

 

The sniper still thinks he's a sleep, so if he did happen to move closer, it wouldn't be anything that he had control over. Or at least that's what the sniper would think. It's just too tempting. He takes the risk, scooting just a bit closer to the other man.

 

The sniper is already almost on the very edge of the bed when he feels the sleeping man turn a little closer. There’s still a barrier of blankets between them no matter how close he gets, Jack reminds himself.

 

He wonders what the guys back at base would think if they knew he was sharing a bed with a Cadet. They’d probably shoot him on the spot. There’s three layers of wrong happening in one bed. Apathetic as sniper is to the whole concept of a gay scandal (which, granted, he might be a little biased about considering his bedfellows have been of both genders in the past) he recognizes that other people on both sides of the war think that being gay is just as bad as being a traitor. On top of that, there’s the fact that this kid is probably like fourteen years old, and if both of those weren’t bad enough, he’s the enemy.

 

“The enemy” seems to be such a loose term. This scout, this kid, James, he’s just trying to get home as much as everyone else alive, as much as everyone else who’s already died. The enemy seems like such a dehumanizing term. James is just a kid at war who could die tomorrow. Sniper can hear his heart beating in his ears as he thinks about this kid dropping dead, never making it home to his ma, never pulling another prank on his brothers. A surge of emotion makes the sniper hot, and he turns over, as though he could shield the kid from every danger just by facing him. He pillows his head on his arm and keeps his eyes closed, because if he opens his eyes and looks at the kid, he doesn’t know if he’d be able to look away.

 

There’s something so raw and honest about a young man at war.

 

Scout closed his eyes quickly as soon as he felt the other starting to turn over, pretending to be asleep again. He wasn't sure if the other had turned over to see what he was doing, or if he was returning the gesture, but the thought that he might have just been trying to get closer had his heart racing in his chest. These definitely weren't feelings of friendship that he had thought they were earlier. He still couldn't place his finger on it though. Or maybe he was just in denial. Maybe he was really getting too comfortable with the other man.

 

The sniper didn’t mean to sleep until sunrise. He wakes up when a sliver of light stretches across his eyes. The kid is curled up on his side facing him. Probably sought out his body heat in the middle of the night subconsciously. He rolls off the side of the mattress as stealthily as he can, trying to keep from waking the scout. Thankfully he stays asleep, and the sniper pulls the blankets a little higher on his body to keep him warm while he goes to find a doctor in town. He leaves behind his hat and vest on the bed to let the kid know that he’s coming back in case he wakes up before he gets back.

 

It’s tricky to locate one, actually. Most of them, as it turns out, did join the Cardinals. And most of those who stayed behind were obstetricians. It takes sniper almost an hour to locate one, and then fifteen minutes to negotiate the level of damage to the bedridden young man, the equipment necessary, and how much it would cost to fix him up.

 

By the time they get back to the motel room, the sun has climbed in the sky, it’s already ten AM according to sniper’s watch. He hopes the kid hasn’t done anything to hurt himself while he was gone.

 

“Right in here,” he tells the doctor as he opens the door –

 

Right to an empty room. He sucks in a breath and steps in to make sure he had the right room. There’s his vest, and the blankets are all disheveled, but his hat is missing and the kid is nowhere to be seen.

 

“He took off! The fuckin’ mook, I hope he drops dead! He took my hat!” the sniper rages, kicking over the chair.

 

Friend, his ass. He spends an arm and a leg for this kid to keep him alive and comfortable and safe, and he fuckin’ steals his knight in shining armor’s helmet and takes off without so much as a goodbye. Not that he’s upset over that, he just wants his hat back.

 

He’s _definitely_ going to shoot him next time he sees him. Except now he’ll shoot him in the chest so he doesn’t put a hole in his hat.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It didn’t occur to the sniper that the kid had stolen his hat because he wanted to see him again.

 

He spent the next several days scanning Cadet troops for his hat, because the second he sees it, he’s gonna shoot that kid dead. He was a fool for thinking he could trust that stupid kid. He never should have stopped that medic from taking him that day.

 

Used to be, sniper could sit up in his nest and think about absolutely nothing except which part of his gun he should clean next. Used to be, when there was downtime, he could just stare up at the clouds through whatever window he was shooting people from, and watch them float by without a single thought in his head.

 

 _Used to fucking be_ , he didn’t have one kid running through his thoughts just as fast as he runs through the battlefield.

 

He can’t have any peace anymore. Whenever there’s a lull, he thinks about the kid. Where is he? What’s he doing with his hat? Is he dead yet? Did he give his hat away? Is he safe? Is his _hat_ safe?

 

He’s since replaced his hat with a newer one that feels too stiff and smells too new. He hasn’t given up on his old hat, no siree. But he’s gotta keep the sun out of his eyes somehow while he’s shooting and the glasses don’t do much on their own.

 

The sniper knows he’s gonna see that scout again. James. Fuckin’ Jim. He’s gotta see him at least one more time. So he can shoot him in the face and take his hat back. He just knows it’s a matter of time.

 

When a sensitive piece of information is stolen off a Cardinal spy by a Cadet medic, a mission blows through the ranks looking for volunteers to enter the BLU HQ to get it back. He volunteers himself so fast it’s almost suspicious.

 

Being around the RED headquarters, the scout had overheard that they would entering their base. Going against his orders to stay offensive, and stay in the enemy's territory, he runs back to his own base as quickly as he could manage. He figures its better to give his team a fair warning to prepare themselves than to let them be attacked, knowing full well that's what was going to happen.

 

On his way to the base, he runs into a higher ranked scout, warning him about the Cardinals that were expected to invade the Cadet headquarters, not really able to give orders himself. After all, he wasn't exactly the highest ranked in his class.

 

“By the way, nice hat,” the scout compliments on his way to Cardinal territory.

 

Scout tips the worn cowboy hat in his direction as he heads the opposite way, hoping to get to a soldier or a spy so they can pass the information to the right people.

 

What he didn’t anticipate was just how quickly the Cardinals planned to mobilize. In a matter of less than half an hour, the sirens are blaring in the Cadet base, warning everyone inside of the invading Cardinals.

 

The scale of the attack is actually fairly small, with less than ten Cardinals total in-base, but according to The Administrator, they were all very well-armed, and very high ranking.

 

“ _The enemy is in the base. Shoot on sight. Repeat, shoot on sight. Be on the lookout for enemy scouts, spies and snipers. Shoot on sight. I repeat, shoot on sight._ ”

 

The scout ends up shooting down a few of the enemy scouts while running on the search for the expected high-ranked Cardinals that were coming his way. He wasn't one for fighting defensively, but at this point he didn't really have much of an option. They were being attacked, there was no reason for him to be on enemy territory then. All he could do was keep a look out for anyone coming, and shoot them on sight.

 

Several halls away, Sniper is cursing the Cardinals’ decision not to make this a stealth mission. Busting down the door guns-blazing never really worked in the past, but they seemed to think it was a better move for them to break in through the front door and make their way into the sewers, where there’s no video surveillance. The external entrance to the sewer is guarded by as many as ten turrets at any given time, but if you asked him, they’re easier to take care of than hundreds of people.

 

He’s regretting volunteering for this mission, and genuinely considering turning back and hightailing it to Cardinal HQ. Fighting within 100 feet of the target has never been his forte. He’s already nursing a bullet wound to the shoulder and barking his frustrations at the nearby spy, about how he’d requested they bring at least one medic, but the Cardinal HQ said they “couldn’t spare any.”

 

Which is royal bullshit, by the way.

 

The spy turns into a BLU scout and allows the sniper to take him around the neck and lead him around like a human shield while they make their way to one of the sewer entrances. And it works, for some time. Everyone they pass goes hands-up rather than shoot their own ally, and all fall dead for it.

 

However, when they reach a barricade of scouts and spies, and one of them is a carbon copy, the jig is up. Sniper continues to hold the dead spy to catch bullets, but he’s quickly being overwhelmed.

 

Scout hears the shooting from a distance and from the sound of it, they might need back up. He runs down into the sewers where the shooting is coming from.

 

He's a good few feet from where the barricade of Spies and Scouts were, unable to really see past them at who they were attacking exactly. He draws his sawed off shot gun, getting a little closer to the target. It's only then that he sees who it is, his eyes widening. Of fucking course it’s him. The Sniper. His buddy, Jack. He figures he still owes him, considering the other had saved him not only once, but 3 times now. He couldn't just let him die.

 

He takes a few steps back, unheard over the sound of the gunshots, taking a shot at one of his own allies from a distance, cursing loudly to make it look like a mistake as he goes to shoot another. He knows this is probably one of the worst ideas that he's had well, ever. He knows that if he gets caught he's dead. Literally. But he can't let the sniper die. Not after all that he's helped him with.

 

When the sniper sees one of the scouts fall face-first into the ankle-deep sludge with blood spreading across his back, he looks up to find the source of the shot, expecting to see a Cardinal ally that snuck around behind to give him aid.

 

What he sees, instead, is his hat. Perched on the head of a very familiar and equally infuriating face.

 

“You?! Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?!” the sniper shouts, and hefts the dead weight of the spy a little higher to catch a bullet that would have hit him in the neck. His arms and legs are stinging with stray buckshot, but at least he’s not dead yet.

 

The scouts look behind them to see who the sniper was yelling at. Two of them are downed by buckshot to the chest and face, and the rest get a spray of smg bullets to the back. They scatter when they realize they’re under attack from one of their own, but between the two of them, they get mowed down.

 

“Are you fuckin’ serious?!” his shout echoes loudly in the tunnel. “Are you actually firin’ on your own fuckin’ side?!”

 

“I had to – ”

 

“Had to nothing!” the sniper cuts him off. “I will not be responsible for your fuckin’ treason!”

 

“But I just – ”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“But I – ”

 

“No, damn it, I mean be quiet.”

 

The sniper throws his palm up to silence the scout, and they hear the distant sound of splashing. One look at the water and the sniper can see the retreating foot steps of a cloaked spy.

 

“God _dammit_ , Jim!” he shouts and shoves past the scout to barrel after the spy.

 

His eyes widen as he realizes that if this spy was on his own side, which he most likely was, and if he got away, he was definitely screwed. He follows close to the sniper, catching up with ease as they attempted to hunt down the cloaked spy, looking around him nervously as to not be caught by anyone else who might happen to be near by.

 

He then decides that staying near the Sniper is way too dangerous and speeds ahead of him, out of his sight, hoping that maybe he'd end up stopping the spy dead in his tracks before the other could get to him.

 

By the time the sniper catches up, not only is he winded, but incredibly angry. He pauses at the sight of two identical James the Scouts facing each other down with their guns pointed at one another. One of them is wearing his hat, one of them isn’t.

 

He immediately lifts his smg to the scout that isn’t wearing the hat, and points his rifle at the other. It’s pretty unwieldy at such a close range, especially one-handed, but it’s better than his other option, which is his machete.

 

The scout, the actual scout's eye widen as he shakes his head, not wanting to take his gun off of the disguised spy.

 

"Don't freakin' point that thing at me!" He shouts at the other, a hint of fear in his voice. "I got 'im, you don't gotta shoot me!"

 

“Shoot ‘im!” the disguised spy shouts, his accent in flawless mimicry of James’. “Come on, man, I got ya hat! Ya ain’t gonna get it back if that spy shoots me in the head!”

 

“God dammit,” the sniper growls, not lowering either gun.

 

"Ugh!" He cries out in annoyance, not wanting to shoot the spy himself, in fear of Jack reacting to it by shooting him. "He took my- your freakin' hat from me, he's the spy! Shoot him, not me!"

 

“You gotta be fuckin’ jokin’.” The sniper huffs.

 

“Come on, man, you gotta be able to tell the difference between us!” the spy shouts, his gun still raised at James. “If you don’t shoot him soon he’s gonna shoot me! Do you want me to die?!”

 

“A little bit actually,” the sniper barks. “Shut your gob, both of you!”

 

He can’t tell the difference. They’re essentially identical save for his hat perched on the head of the one on the left.

 

“Aw, fuck it!”

 

 

The spy falls back with the blow from a close-range sniper rifle that has specks of spine flying out his back. The hat flutters harmlessly to the ground, and the cloak drops to reveal the Cadet spy.

 

He jumps a bit when the shot is fired, half expecting to be the one who got shot. When he opens his eyes and realizes he's alright, and he leans down to grab the hat, putting it back on top of his head.

 

"Yo, how did ya know that was the spy I mean we were identica- whoa, ahah.." He gives an uncomfortable chuckle when he looks up to see the gun still pointing directly at him, the expression on the sniper's face not easing him any. "Why uh… ya don't gotta have that thing pointed at me anymore, ya know.."

 

The sniper’s expression is dark and steely, eyes narrowed behind the golden lenses of his glasses.

 

“Hat.” He orders, extending his hand. “Now.”

 

"Huh?" He puts a hand on the hat, smiling nervously as he takes it off. "Oh, this hat? Yeah, yeah, this is yours, ain't it? I was just borrowin' it is all." He says, handing the hat back over to the sniper. "No, uh…. no hard feelin's or anything right?"

 

The sniper snatches his hat and trades it out for the new one perched on his head, which he frisbees at the scout’s feet.

 

“I’d say feelings are pretty hard, actually, Jimbo,” he says, voice low, gun raised. He straps his rifle to his back and steadies the gun with his other hand, pointed directly at James’ throat.

 

He swallows hard, looking at the hat that fell at his feet. He'd be sure to pick that up if he got out of this alive. "What? Why? What'd I do, I didn't do anything! Just… just put that shit down, you're makin' me uncomfortable."

 

“Nothing, except runnin’ off like an ungrateful little badger after I dropped a lot of cash to keep you alive. I can’t believe I saved you again, it hasn’t gone well for me at any point. You’re like a siren or somethin’, you keep pullin’ me in with your stupid grin and stupid accent – you’re not nearly as charming as you think you are, got that?”

 

"I'm not… what?" He raises his eyebrows, feeling his throat start to go dry. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears. "I'm not tryin' to do anythin' I don't know what you're talkin' about! I ran off with ya hat because I figured-" He shakes his head, not wanting to sound pathetic. "It doesn't matter why, but I wasn't plannin' on keepin' it! I was gonna give it back."

 

“And you did. And _I_ said that I was gonna shoot you next time I saw you. So I suggest you start runnin’.”

 

The scout just gives him a pathetic look. He knew what the other had said, but for whatever reason, hearing it again hits him hard. Maybe it's because they had gotten a bit personal their last encounter, but he felt connected with the Sniper. And he could tell he was pretty serious about wanting to shoot him.

 

"Really gonna do that huh? Serious about it?" He chews the inside of his cheek, before looking back down at that hat, squatting down to pick it up and put it on top of his head. "If you're gonna shoot me just go ahead and freakin' do it."

 

And just like that, the scout is blown back by a well-placed bullet to the shoulder, mirroring the one still bleeding in the sniper’s. The hat is knocked clean off his head and he falls on his ass on the concrete with a loud cry.

 

“We are _not friends!_ ” the sniper approaches the terrified scout, who crawls back, hat abandoned, clutching his shoulder. “We will never _be_ friends! We _can’t_ ever be friends! I don’t even _want_ to be friends! I regret ever even laying eyes on you! Next time I see your face in my crosshair, I’m pullin’ the trigger!”

 

He shoots the ground directly beside the scout’s head, and then he’s off, sprinting past him to finish the mission he volunteered for, rage powering him forward. There’s no way he’s leaving this base without that information, now.

 

He watches as the sniper runs off, his hand still clutching at his shoulder.

 

Eventually he manages to pull himself up onto his feet, letting go of the bleeding wound for just a moment as he picks the hat back up with his good arm, putting it back on, before taking off in the opposite direction. He's half hoping the sniper will keep his promise. Better he kill him than anyone else, he figures.


	6. Chapter 6

This time, Jack really does hope he never sees that kid again.

This time, he’s pretty sure he actually would shoot him.

 

He can’t recall at any point in his life, any individual pissing him off worse than that stupid kid. He’s not even sure what it is _about_ Jim that makes him so angry. He hasn’t technically done anything to warrant the level of rage Jack carries at the mere thought of him.

 

Sure, he took his hat. That kind of sucked. But he did get it back.

Sure, he ran off when the sniper went to fetch a doctor for him. But he’s terrified to tears of docs, and Jack can’t exactly blame him for that, after what happened.

Sure, he’s annoying. But most people annoy him.

 

Besides that all he’s done is try to be the sniper’s friend. That shouldn’t make him as angry as it does.

 

In the days that followed their last encounter, every sunrise brought with it a greater and greater peace, until finally the rage was gone, and Jack was finally free to think clearly.

 

He’s mad as a hare about Jim. It’s a whole mixture of things.

 

His naïveté reminds Jack of the days when he was young, back in Australia, herding sheep and picking flowers for his mum, hunting with his dad and cleaning deer, laughing at his bad popsicle-stick jokes. It reminds him of how long ago that was, and how he’ll never get it back.

 

His desire for friendship reminds Jack of how hard it was for him to make friends as a kid. Nobody wanted to befriend the knock-kneed donkey-faced kid that always smelled like sheep and picked threads of wool out of his bagged lunches.

 

It reminds him of how hard it is, still, to make friends. Nobody wants to be around him because of his bad attitude and slang no one understands. It’s taken him more than thirty years to find someone who might be a friend and he’s on the opposite side of the war – how dare he? How _dare_ this kid come to him now? Where was he ten years ago when he almost shot himself in the head because he was so lonely? Where was he when he was a kid, looking for someone – anyone – to identify with?

 

Jim reminds him of everything he lost and everything he never had. He can’t really blame him for that. It doesn’t help that he’s more handsome than Jack ever was at his age. That just adds insult to injury.

 

He’s been so lost in thought over the last several days that it actually winds up being detrimental to his abilities, and he gets moved from his perch up in the munitions tower of the base to a lower-down perch closer to the territory where the Cadets tend to roam. They said it was because he should “do better when he’s close up, because he’ll be closer to the action and harder to distract.”

  
He tries to argue that moving him closer is actually the exact opposite of helpful considering his field of work, but they don’t listen, and he’s officially set up in a shack on a hill.

 

“Fantastic,” he grumbles as he looks around his new abode. Moving him closer won’t make him a better shot, it’ll only make him a faster one.

 

As the days go by, James starts to feel more and more lonely. He wouldn't deny that he wishes the sniper would actually come along and shoot him. He was really starting to think that there was a chance of them actually being friends, or at least, something.

 

He tried not to think about it too much. Every time he did there was a weird aching deep in his chest. He'd been rejected before. Countless times, in fact. It never quite felt like this, though. He didn't like it. It was much too distracting. He had to focus on his job, he had to focus on not getting himself killed.

 

Despite his conscious protests, Jack was the only thing that was ever on his mind. He wonders if he'd still protest being his friend even if they weren't in the middle of a war. He wonders if it has something to do with the fact that he's young. Just barely an adult. Maybe it's because he's irritating. He knows he is, but it's not like he can help it. He takes pride in it, in fact.

 

He doesn't even want to be in this damn war any longer. He never really wanted to be in the first place. But he knows damn well there's no backing out.

 

This day is no different than any other. Just his usual, zipping around, trying his best not to get shot. It’s a lot easier to block out his thoughts when he can barely hear himself think over the sounds of gunshots and explosions.

 

The sniper doesn’t do very well close-up to the action, just like he suspected. He’s in harm’s way, and catches a few bullets in the shoulders before he manages to duck out of the window. His cheek is bleeding from when he was grazed by a bullet from a Cadet soldier. He popped that soldier’s head clean off, though, so they’re even.

 

Even thinking about being “even” makes him think about Jim and his stomach clenches.

 

He’s so distracted that he doesn’t see the pyro until he’s right upon him. That soulless black mask stares at him as the man inside bolts the door shut and sets fire to the shack.

 

Jack is engulfed in smoke before he can even think, burning his eyes and nose and lungs. He rams the butt of his rifle into the window on the side of the shack, seeing as the one he was firing out of led directly to a drop-off, without even an inch of room for him to shimmy across. The smoke is making him weak, and he’s not strong enough to break the glass. He’s choking now, tears running down his face, skin burning, sweating.

 

This can’t be how it ends. Burning, choking to death in a shack on a hill because he couldn’t stop thinking about a fucking kid. Some part of him thinks Jim will come along to save him, because that’s what they’ve been doing, isn’t it?

 

Then there’s a crack in the glass and one more hard snap from the rifle has the glass shattering. The flames are licking the outside of the shack and the roof is starting to cave in, but the sniper knocks the glass out of the bottom of the sill and barrel rolls out of the window. He cuts his arms and chest on the way out, burns his hands and legs, but it’s better than being dead.

 

He stumbles a few feet before collapsing, coughing up a lung, shaking with exertion and fear, and hopes to hell that he won’t be jumped by the enemy while he’s struggling to recuperate.

 

James isn't even paying attention to the ground where he's running once he catches sight of the burning shack. He can't help but think about what poor soul was caught in there. Man, what a way to go. Burning to death. He wonders if anyone was actually up there anyway. What if it wasn't a RED who died? What if it was one of his own allies? What if it was a RED? What if it was-

 

His train of thought is cut off when he trips over something on the ground, just barely catching his balance, his eyes wide from being startled back into reality. He turns quickly to see what exactly it is he's tripped over, panting heavily as he points his gun at what is unmistakably a RED. It doesn't register at first who it is. He only sees the shirt and his first instinct is to fire a shot. Though not very well, seeing as how it misses by a few good inches.

 

He goes to shoot another but by the time it takes him to realize he's out of ammo, he recognizes who the enemy on the ground is.

 

Of fucking course.

 

He knows he should run. He know the other will shoot him the moment he gets the chance. He know he should reload his gun and shoot him before the sniper gets a chance to shoot back. But he finds himself frozen in his spot.

 

Jack is still wheezing, blinded, knocking his hat and glasses off in order to better breathe. His eyes sting and water, and he’s still choking, hot from the fire less than fifteen feet away.

 

He curses a few times, gasping for air, coughing to try and get the smoke out of his lungs. He hears a shot go off nearby – too close for comfort – and he realizes that he’s going to have to get to cover if he wants to live.

 

He wipes his eyes on his sleeve and squints up into the face of –

 

“Lord, just kill me now.”

 

He looks around, eyes still burning, but nobody else is around. The pyro appears to have completely fled, and they’re alone up on the hill. He relaxes, he knows this kid isn’t gonna shoot him, and goes back to coughing.

 

He just stands there for what seems to be minutes, though only a few seconds have actually passed. He wants to help the other, but he knows the moment he does he's going to get shot as. He knows he should be running, or shooting or- or something! Not just standing there, staring at what he was supposed to pretend was an enemy, a stranger on the ground.

 

When he can finally breathe again, the sniper unsteadily rises to his feet, wiping his sweaty and flushed face and stumbling another couple feet in pursuit of his discarded hat, setting it clumsily on his head.

 

He finally turns to appraise the stock-still scout, frowning, fists clenching.

 

He doesn’t even know what to say. He spent the last several days sorting through all his emotions, reflecting on why he was angry at this kid, telling himself why he shouldn’t be. But now that he’s standing faced with him, all that anger comes rushing back.

 

Eyes still brimming with tears from the fire, he scrubs at his eyes with another cough. “Get the hell out of here,” he stares longingly up at his old perch in the solid concrete tower over the scout’s head, remembering when he used to be able to sit up there without a care in the world, when his thoughts weren’t dominated by the young man standing in front of him.

 

He snaps out of his frozen state when the sniper talks to him, shaking his head.

 

"Yeah, yeah no- I was just- I was goin', it ain't my fault you freakin' tripped me! Had t' catch my breath is all." He says, coming up with an excuse as to why he was just standing there, doing absolutely nothing. "Ya' lucky I don't fuckin' shoot ya, huh? Glad I missed."

 

Jack wouldn’t be surprised if the kid shoots him. He shot Jim last time, after all. He doesn’t seem to have a lot of conviction behind the threat, however.

 

“Glad?” the sniper asks, hands on his hips, just trying to breathe. “Really?”

 

"I… I mean." He stutters, still trying to catch his breath, the smoke coming from the nearby fire not helping much. "I mean you. You should be glad I missed is all. Coulda fuckin' killed ya or something right here. I shoulda." His threats are all obviously empy. There's a slight tremble in his voice. Almost like he was scared. Scared of what, though?

 

He finally has his bearings back as he stares up at the kid. The fire makes him feel too hot, but he’s standing his ground. The fight rages on far below, but the two of them are at a peaceful juncture up on the hill. The crackling of the burning shack is the only noise besides the gunfire.

 

“Why do you keep showin’ back up in my life, kid?” the sniper asks breathlessly, shaking his head. “Why can’t I get rid of you? Why do you keep comin’ back? I ain’t nothin’ special, even if we didn’t have this schism between us, I’m not _friend_ material, so why won’t you leave me alone?”

 

"It's not like I'm meanin' to! It just keeps happening! I'm just as fuckin' annoyed at it as you are. Probably." He admits, finally lowering his gun. "This ain't helpin' me at all, believe me. It's gettin' ridiculous." He doesn't want to say too much more on the topic. Because they aren't friends. They aren't anything. Anything more than enemies, that is. He doesn't need, or want the other's pity. He wants the other erased from his mind just as much as the sniper wants it. He swears it's driving him crazy.

 

Just as quickly as the scout’s gun goes down, the sniper’s goes up.

 

“I’m gonna do it this time,” he says. “I’m sick of you. I’m sick of always runnin’ into you, I’m sick of thinkin’ of you even when you’re not around. I’m sick of constantly worryin’ about a dumb kid on the other side of the war who was never gonna make it home anyway. I’ve got way too much to do to keep thinkin’ about where you are and if you’re okay. At least if I’ve shot you dead, I can stop wondering if you’re still alive.”

 

Surprisingly enough, all of the fear fades from the young scout's face as he stares down the barrel of the gun. He's sure the sniper's going to go through with it this time. He knows it. He knows within a matter of seconds everything that was bothering him would be gone. The daily fight for his life, the constant struggle with his emotions he has whenever he thinks of the other man, the worry if he's ever gonna get a chance to see his ma again. It'll be all over. He's not even gonna fight it.

 

"Then do it. I don't wanna be in this god damn war anymore anyway. Better you fuckin' do it than anyone else. The fuckin' asshat who for whatevah freakin' reason is always on my mind, blowin' my brains out. Seems fitting enough, just _do it._ " He encourages, his voice cracking.

 

Jack wants to.

Or at least, he should want to. He wishes he wanted to.

 

It would be so easy. He’s not even fighting. He’s just giving up. It’s not like he’s never shot an unarmed man. He’s shot men in their sleep and it doesn’t make it any harder for him to live with himself.

 

He wants to stop agonizing over this kid. He wants to stop thinking about him. Shooting him won’t make him stop thinking about him. It’ll just make him think about the way he looked as he died. The way he gave up. The way his voice broke.

 

What is he thinking? Is he actually going to shoot a kid dead up on a hill, away from everyone he knows down on the field below, next to a burning shack? And then what, just walk away? It feels disrespectful to even think about it. There’s no way this kid is making it through the war, but after everything they’ve been through, it just feels wrong to be the one to end his journey.

 

He has to. He can’t keep thinking about where this kid is, always occupied with his health and safety. He’s supposed to be the enemy, god dammit.

 

He cocks his gun.

The scout flinches and closes his eyes.

Both of them hold their breath.

 

_On the count of three_ , he tells himself.

 

_One_.

 

He hears the kid swallow, hard.

 

_Two_.

 

He’s shaking a little bit.

 

_Three_.

 

“Fuck.” He lowers his gun and turns his back to the scout. “I can’t. Can’t do it. I can’t- fuck.”

 

He didn't know he was holding his breath until he lets out a heavy sigh when sniper lowers his gun. He opens his eyes to look over at him, his heart still racing in his chest, trembling slightly.

 

"I… should I run now?" He asks, clearing the lump in his throat. "Or..?"

 

“You can,” the sniper drops his gun to the ground. “But I’m not gonna shoot you. I don’t think I can. Fuck.”

 

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to stop the stinging. He doesn’t even care if the scout shoots him or if he runs.

 

“Why?” he asks, not even sure if he’s still standing there. “Why did’ja have to show up now? Why couldn’t we have met five years ago before all this war shit?”

 

"'m sorry." He apologizes, starting to feel like this really was all his fault. Right now he was really wishing there wasn't a stupid ass war going on. He really did. It was just making everything too complicated. What were they even fighting over? He'd almost forgotten. He'd been far too preoccupied by his other thoughts recently.

 

"I just- Ya don't- Ugh!" He lets out a groan of frustration. "Why the fuck can't we be friends? Why? Why the fuck not? This is drivin' me crazy!" He runs his hands down his face. " _You're_ fuckin' driving me crazy! Ya always on my god damn mind, I feel like I'm losin' it! I feel like absolute shit I just- I keep getting this stupid fuckin' sinking feelin' whenever I think about you, which is all the fuckin' time now, and this is fuckin' ridiculous! I hate it, I hate it! I hate this stupid war, I hate my fuckin' self, and shit I fuckin' hate you for makin' me feel like this!" He shouts. No one is around to hear them anyway. "Ya don't… ya just… this ain't fuckin fair, okay?"

 

At first, the sniper doesn’t move. He doesn’t turn around to look at the other man. His fists clench and then relax.

 

“We matter,” he says quietly. Almost too quietly. “Both of us. You, you stupid kid, and me, sittin’ up in the clouds poppin’ heads. We both matter. You’re on your side and I’m on mine, but both of us were on the same side five years ago, ten years ago. We were both human, doin’ our stupid insignificant human things.”

 

He turns around to face the younger man, and maybe it’s the sun, or his blurry vision, but Jim’s eyes look shiny.

 

“To answer your question, we can’t be friends because if we get caught, we’ll both die. They’ll kill us before they even think about askin’ questions.”

 

"This entire fuckin' thing is stupid." He says, letting out a shaky breath, his fists clenched at his sides.

 

He doesn't know what to do. A minute ago everything was okay, when he thought he was going to be shot. Everything was okay because everything was going to be over with. But now it’s just so much worse. It feels like his chest is being squeezed, and he feels short of breath. He feels more desperate now than ever, and he hates it. He hates the way he looks at the sniper. He hates the fact that they have to be on opposite side. He just hates everything.

 

He's silent for a moment, before finally speaking again. "…I can keep quiet about it. No one's gotta know or anything…"

 

From the way he was speaking it didn't sound like he was talking about friendship anymore. He wasn't sure what it was. He was almost positive it was still platonic. Almost. He was certain that his feelings were much stronger than anything he's felt in a while. And he's desperate to be able to express them. The knowing that he can't is what's driving him crazy.

 

The sniper rubs the back of his neck and looks back down at the battlefield behind them. “Jimbo, look at that. That carnage. You know as well as I do we can’t be friends. Don’t matter if we get along, fucked up as I am and annoyin’ as you are. That down there is what happens when REDs and BLUs interact. We just… can’t. Maybe if this war ends soon, and we’re both still alive, maybe we can get together again after for drinks but… look at them down there. They’re all dyin’ for this. Don’t you think it’s a mite bad-mannered to ignore everythin’ they’re fightin’ for by consortin’ with the enemy?”

 

Honestly, he doesn’t believe a word out of his own mouth. He likes the kid. He knows he likes the kid. He formed an almost immediate and pretty intense bond with him. Pretty much the first person apart from his parents that he’s _ever_ felt connected to. Maybe that’s why it feels so profound.

 

He hopes that the kid will listen to the reason he’s bullshitting. It’ll be a lot easier to forget him if the kid is trying to forget him, too.

 

But scout shakes his head, refusing to listen to the other.

 

"I don't care, I don't give a shit. Fuck respect, fuck everything! I just, I can't do this, I don't even wanna be a part of this bullshit. I just wanna go home, man. I can't even fuckin'…" He takes another deep breath, kicking at the ground in frustration. He's not even able to finish his thoughts. He's concentrating too hard on keeping himself together.

 

All of this time, he's never felt such a strong bond to anyone before. And they weren't even allowed to look at each other without shooting each other, let alone talk. Forget about being friends, or whatever it was that he wanted.

 

He wants to just run away. He wants to forget him, he really does. But he couldn't run no matter how bad he wanted to. His legs feel heavier than ever. He feels like he may pass out if he doesn't pull himself together. But he can't.

 

The next time sniper looks up, there’s definitely tears in the kids eyes. Not exactly his specialty, comforting crying kids. But he used to comfort his mum whenever she cried over a lamb being stillborn, which usually happened once or twice a spring. This was probably sort of similar.

 

He walks up to the scout and pulls him into a hug. He can’t say he doesn’t care if anyone sees, but he for sure doesn’t think that the consequences are of any significance at the moment. This scout doesn’t seem like the type who does a lot of crying. His tears should be saved for when they really matter, when they really mean something. Jack doesn’t think he’s worthy of them right here and now.

 

“Come on, Jimbo,” he can rest his chin on top of the scout’s head. “Just put on a red tee shirt, it’ll all be fine.”

 

He trembles in the sniper's arms, his entire body tense as he tries his best to keep his tears from spilling out of his eyes. He can't cry. Not now. Not over something so stupid. But it didn't seem stupid at that moment. He takes a few deep breaths, his face burying in the older man's shoulder, finally easing into his hold. He feels safe. Incredibly safe. He knows he's far from it, especially now, but he really does feel okay.

 

"I wish it was just that god damn easy." He says, voice cracking as he speaks. "Sorry, sorry, I'm fuckin' pathetic right now."

 

“Shh,” the sniper soothes, patting the kid’s back. “Fuck it. You know what, we’ll make it work. Once every other week or so we’ll go out into the town – though you probably shouldn’t wear your blues – or we’ll just sneak out, if you wanna make it work, we’ll make it work.”

 

He’s not sure why he’s encouraging this behavior. He shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be encouraging any of this. He shouldn’t be hugging him, he shouldn’t even be touching him. He shouldn’t have even saved him from the medic.

 

It’s all moot, because it’s happening. If he’s gonna die for it, at least he’d die making a friend for the first time in his life. Or whatever the hell this is. He squeezes the kid a little tighter.

 

The smallest of smiles works its way onto scout’s face, his arms finally finding their way around the other's waist to return the hug. He feels his heart flutter, from what he just assume is happiness, already feeling a good deal better. He gives him a nod, clearing his throat, trying to prevent his voice from cracking again. "Yeah… yeah we can do that. That's okay, great actually. Yeah, yeah, great."

 

The sniper clears his throat when he feels the scout return the hug, maybe a little bit too affectionately, and pushes him away gently by the shoulders. “For now, I’ve gotta get back up to my proper nest. From now on, I see you, I cover you, alright? You just do your fast running thing.”

 

The Scout nods, grinning widely at him, giving him a thumbs up. "Yup. Got it. I can do that." He straightens his hat on his head, wiping away at the few tears that did manage to escape. "I'll see ya around then." He says, before picking his gun back up, darting off into the distance, hoping no one noticed his long absence.

 

The sniper waves after him for a few seconds, but is distracted when the still-burning shed caves in next to him.

 

He scoops his glasses up off the ground and fits them over his nose, watching the kid sprint away.

 

“What have you gotten yourself into, mate.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooray bonus smut chapter

Over the last few weeks of their new secret friendship, James had noticed that his feelings for the sniper were developing more and more. It didn't take him long to realize that was completely, head over heels, crushing on the Sniper. And bad. All of this had been a little more than overwhelming to him. He hadn't exactly been one for being open-minded when it came to sexual orientation. Though, not very many people were open-minded about that sort of thing. He would have never though that he could have the hots for another dude.

 

He was in denial about it for the longest time, before finally coming to terms with it. Now came the hard part. He had to confess his feelings to the older man.

 

He didn't think that the sniper would care too much. He seemed pretty laid back with just about everything, honestly. But the thought of telling his new, and pretty much only friend that he wanted nothing more than to be close to him, and kiss him, and fall into bed with him was a bit more than a little intimidating.

 

What if he made a fool of himself? What if he ended up spilling all of his feelings onto him only to be rejected? He had chickened out the last few times he had planned on telling him for these exact reasons. But tonight was the night. It was either now or never. And he had the perfect solution.

 

 

He ends up sneaking out of his bunker in the middle of the night, making his way out to where the sniper kept his camper van parked, booze in hand. Coming out to the van had become routine now, so much so that he didn't even fear being caught any longer. He gives a few knocks at the back door of the van, waiting for the other to let him in.

 

“That didn’t sound like the secret knock,” comes the drawl from inside. “How do I know you ain’t a spy comin’ to shove a butterfly knife up my jacksie?”

 

"Ugh." He gives a dramatic groan, before knocking at the door again, making sure to do the secret knock this time. "Just lemme in! I brought us drinks!"

 

“Drinks!” the sniper echoes, unlocking the back door to the camper and stepping out of the narrow pathway so the scout can edge inside. “I knew I kept you around for a reason. How’d you even get your hands on alcohol? You’re thirteen years old.”

 

"I'm 23, thank you." He climbs inside of the van, handing Jack the bottle of alcohol as he scoots his way inside, taking a seat at the table to make more room in the cramped area. "That's gotta be like, the eighth time I told ya that."

 

“Right, yeah,” the sniper says offhandedly as he looks over the bottle. “Who’d you steal this from? This is the good stuff.” He cracks open the top with a satisfied smile and breathes in the bitter scent of hard liquor.

 

"C'mon gimme some credit. I bought it myself. Figured we could, ah, use some. We've been workin' hard or whatevah," He comes up with some bullshit excuse as to why he decided to bring the hard stuff.

 

He reaches over for the bottle after the other takes a sip from it. "Gimme it, I want some too."

 

“Thirteen year olds don’t get to drink,” sniper teases, holding the bottle out of his reach for a moment before handing it over as a reward for the priceless puppydog pout the scout gives him. “Okay, I’m sorry, here you go. Don’t take more than hummin’bird sips though or you’ll be under the table in ten minutes. You know what a lightweight you are.”

 

"I ain't _that_ much of a lightweight." He takes the bottle from the sniper, not taking any more than a few sips from it anyway. "I don't wanna get smashed tonight anyway, ya don't gotta worry about me." He passes the bottle back over to him, coughing a bit as the alcohol burned at the back of his throat. He obviously isn't used to anything stronger than beer.

 

“Last time we drank whiskey you were throwin’ up your intenstines,” the sniper shoots back with a smirk curling his lip, and takes a deep drink from the bottle. He leans forward to tug the curtains closed in front of the window, and then rummages through the storage box for the RED scout shirt he stole from laundry, and tosses it at the kid. It’s standard faire for him to tug on a Cardinal uniform while the hang out in the camper, on the extremely off chance that someone comes out to investigate the sound of laughter. He parks pretty far away from the rest of civilization, but the chance is still there, and hence, the shirt.

 

He eases back down into the seat with a sigh as soon as the scout stashes his blue shirt back in the storage box and takes up the seat opposite him. He takes another drink from the bottle before setting it down on the table for the kid. The burn warms him from the inside out, and he already feels more comfortable, kicking his boots up onto the small table between the two booth-style seats.

 

He grabs the drink from the table between them, taking a bit more than just a sip this time, making a face as he sets the bottle back down, trying to ignore the burn he wasn't quite used to yet. "Yeah? Well now I know not to drink that much this time, huh? I ain't stupid." He snort, leaning back against the booth, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“You’re a little stupid.”

 

The sniper ducks scout’s bat as it flies over his head and lands harmlessly on his lofted bed. He stands up to grab his cigarettes from the windowsill and taps one out of the box. “Want one?” he offers with a chuckle, holding the box out to the kid.

 

The last time he offered, scout took him up on it, probably to look cool. He wound up taking a single puff and then doubled over coughing so bad he threw up. Sniper almost pissed himself laughing.

 

He shook his head, refusing the cigarette. "Ah, nah. Last time was a mistake, I already got a fucked up lung. Ain't too good for my runnin' or anything." He comes up with an excuse, scratching the back of his head. He didn't want to admit the real reason he was refusing was because he didn't wanna look like a dumbass again.

 

There’s no fooling the sniper, though, who grins like a cat, trapping the end of the cigarette between his teeth and lighting the other end with a match. He turns his head to blow the smoke towards the stove instead of in scout’s face.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re done already,” Sniper tips his head towards the bottle on the table. “I thought you weren’t a lightweight? Come on, it’ll put some hair on your chest.”

 

"I also said I didn't wanna get wasted tonight." He says and rolls his eyes, taking another swig from the bottle to humor the sniper. Just one more, then he was done. He didn't want to get stupidly drunk or anything. He was already starting to feel a little something too, anyway. Or maybe he was just imagining he was.

 

"I wanted to talk to ya 'bout something anyway, I'd like to be kinda sober."

 

“Talk, then,” the sniper takes the bottle and drinks deep again. When he looks at the kid again, his cigarette stops halfway towards his mouth. The scout’s expression is somber and a little scared, not the kind of emotions he usually sports. In fact, sniper hasn’t really seen the kid frown ever since their encounter up on Burning Hill.

 

Which means that it’s something serious. Scout isn’t the type to get serious often, only when it’s a really big deal. Sniper kicks his feet off the table to sit up straight, not wanting to disrespect whatever’s weighing the kid down.

 

“Hey, Jimbo. What’s wrong?” he asks, setting his cigarette down in the ashtray in order to give the distressed scout his full attention.

 

"It's just-" He shakes his head taking his hat off and setting it down on the table. "Ah, shit, I've been meaning to tell ya this for a while, I guess." He begins, sucking his lips into his mouth for a moment. His heart is pounding in his chest and his stomach is doing flips. He has no idea how to even go about telling him. Is there even a proper way? This is all so stupid, Jack is going to think he's the dumbest piece of shit. What if this ruins the friendship he struggled so hard to get? This was a bad idea.

 

"Shit… " He grumbles.

 

“Whoa, hey,” the sniper reaches across the very small table and closes his hand over Jim’s forearm, his thumb rubbing ever so lightly to soothe the troubled scout. “Look, whatever it is, it don’t matter. Well I guess it might matter- might matter a lot. But I mean it ain’t gonna change anything. Unless you’re about to tell me you’re double-crossin’ me and givin’ information I been tellin’ you in confidence to the Cadets. In which case everythin’ll change and I’ll shoot you where you sit.”

 

"I mean- It's not really- I just- You just-" He tries to get the words out, but he can't. For once, his mouth just isn't forming any words. He can't get it out. And now he looks dumb as hell. Shit. He doesn't know what to do. He's not thinking right.

 

Which may be why he decides to just lean over the table, pressing his lips to the sniper's, hearing his heart beat in his ears.

 

Time stands still.

 

The sniper’s eyes widen so far they ache. His soft touch on scout’s arm turns into a rigid claw of surprise. He stops breathing altogether. He thinks his heart might have stopped, too. How long has it been since the kid leaned forward? Probably less than five seconds, but it’s hard to gauge when they appear to have fallen into a time warp.

 

Snapping to his senses, the sniper shoves scout back by his chest so hard that his head snaps against the storage box behind him.

 

“H- How much did you drink?” he gasps, voice shaking, his face lit up red like a firecracker. His fingers are cast over his lips in a protective cage, but he doesn’t wipe his mouth. “Crikey you really are a lightweight!”

 

When the other shoves him away, he knows he's fucked up. His face has got to be just as red, if not redder than the sniper's. "Ah jeez-" He's quick to scramble out of his seat, stumbling a bit as he stands up. "Shit, I fucked up, I'm sorry I shoulda- I just wanted to say- Fuck, fuck, Sorry, I'll leave." He stammers, starting to head toward the door only a few feet away.

 

“Wait – ”

 

The sniper grabs onto the scout’s wrist when he’s one foot out the door, halting him in his tracks.

 

Wait for what, he’s not entirely sure.

He’s got so many questions running through his head he doesn’t even know where to start. He hangs open-mouthed just inside the camper, holding on for dear life. He might not know what to say, but he knows if he lets the kid go now, he probably won’t come back.

 

He’s got a thousand things to say.

 

Why’d you do that, kid?

Don’t know know who I am?

I’m the old guy who shot you.

Since when are you a fag?

Were you this whole time?

Did you know that I am?

Did you just guess?

Were you tryin’ to get a rise out of me?

Was that your first kiss?

What were you tryin’ to accomplish?

What were you tryin’ to get outta me?

Friendship is hard enough on opposite sides, what did you think was gonna happen?

 

He can’t get a single word out of his mouth.

 

He tenses up when Jack grabs him, but he doesn't fight back or try to pull away. He just looks back at him with wide eyes, eyebrows raised, a pathetic expression etched across his face. "What?" He asks, his voice trembling just slightly. "Look I'm sorry, I'll just get outta your face, alright?"

 

Several half-syllables stutter out of the sniper’s mouth, but he can’t get any full words out. He stares the scout in the face, trying to work over why he might have just kissed him. His work brain clicks into focus and he tries to sort through the information logically, like he would a hit.

 

Target: A very confusing kiss

Threat: Losing Jim

Threat Level: High

 

Option 1)

  * Demand answers
    * Risk: high
    * Reward: ????
    * Possible consequences:
      * Jim folds under the pressure
      * Jim doesn’t actually have any answers
      * leave Jack with more questions than he started
      * Jim gets scared off
      * lose Jim



REDACTED

 

Option 2)

  * Let him go
    * Risk: high
    * Reward: low
    * Possible consequences:
      * Jim never comes back
      * lose Jim



REDACTED

 

Option 3)

  * Kiss him again
    * Risk: **HIGH**
    * Reward: high
    * Possible consequences:
      * scare him off
      * never see him again
      * lose Jim



 

REDACTED

 

It’s not working out. Of course it’s not working. This doesn’t have anything to do with logic. His hand squeezes Jim’s wrist a little tighter. He can’t overthink this. This isn’t a hit. This is Jim.

 

“Why?” he croaks.

 

"Why?" He repeats the question, mostly to himself. Why what? Why was he about to leave? Why did he kiss him? Why was Jack constantly on his mind? Why did he feel like he was going insane every time he saw him and his heart would start beating just a little bit faster? He lets out a noise that could easily be taken as a whine or a whimper.

 

"You're drivin' me fuckin' crazy, that's why." He swallows hard, his brow furrowing. "I can't stop thinkin' about you, you're always on my damn mind. I feel like I'm gonna explode every fuckin' time I see you, I don't know how to deal with these kind of god damn emotions, I ain't cut out for this. But I just- I just want you, fuck."

 

The sniper figured that much out already. If the kid was trying to prank him, he wouldn’t look this scared. But that’s not the information he wanted. He rephrases.

 

“Why _me?_ ”

 

"Why _you?_ " He groans slightly, shaking his head. "No, no, don't make me do that, shit. It's fuckin' bad enough I just spilled out my feelings like that, I don't fuckin' know why, I just do-" He huffs, slightly frustrated.

 

He knew exactly why he liked the sniper. He made him feel comfortable, he made him feel safe. Yeah, he treated him like a kid, but it was all in good fun, mostly. For once someone actually tolerated him. For once James actually felt like he connected with someone.

 

Not to mention how ridiculously handsome the scout found him. It was a different kind of charm, yeah, and he couldn't quite figure it out. Maybe it was the rugged look he had, or his thick accented, husky voice. Maybe it was the stupid crooked grin he had. He didn't know, but there was definitely something about him he found unreasonably attractive.

 

Sniper’s brows are low, hooding his eyes as he appraises the younger man. So maybe he doesn’t know _why_ the kid wants him. But maybe he doesn’t really need to know. If he made the kid think too hard he might come to his senses. Jack is nothing if he’s not an opportunist.

 

He lets go of the scout’s wrist, and takes a step back into his camper.

 

“You got two options, Jimbo. You can cut your losses, run now. Head back to Cadet HQ. Pretend none of this happened. Forget everythin’. It’s dangerous enough bein’ friends.”

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“Or you can come back inside. Once that door closes, though, you surrender to me.”

 

He knows if he runs now, it won't fix anything. It might just make everything worse. But he also knows the possible consequences if he stays. He lets out a heavy sigh as he steps back into the camper, closing the door behind him. He was always a risk taker anyway.

 

He’s shoved back up against the door before he can take one more step into the camper. “You do realize what this means, right?” the sniper asks, his voice going low and rough. “What exactly it is you’re suggestin’? What you’re submittin’ to?”

 

His breath hitches as he's shoved up against the door, his pulse pounding in his ears again. Oh, that fucking voice. He swallows hard, giving the sniper a nod, squirming just slightly under his hold. "I-I… " He stutters, tensing up a bit. "Yeah… "

 

“I ain’t just talkin’ about the mechanics, boy,” the sniper steps just a little closer. He doesn’t press their bodies together just yet, leaves less than an inch between them, so close that the air between them feels charged by electricity. The only point of contact between them are his hands on the scout’s shoulders. “This is something we’d get killed for even if we _wasn’t_ on opposite sides of the war. Even if we saved the General’s life a hundred times over we’d still be shot for this. You sure you wanna go through with it?”

 

He nods again, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, yeah a course I know, what, you think I haven't that about this at all or somethin'? I'm smarter than ya give me credit for, c'mon now." He says with a nervous chuckle. Or maybe he really wasn't as smart as he was claiming to be. This entire thing is a really stupid idea, and he knows it.

 

“This means that if we’re ever found out, you can’t use the ‘I was just usin’ him for information’ excuse to keep them from killin’ you. They’ll shoot you dead anyway for bein’ a fag,” the sniper warns, his hands moving from Jim’s shoulders to his upper arms, his thumbs rubbing over his bare biceps. He doesn’t want to frighten the kid, but he doesn’t want to sugar coat it, either.

 

"I know, I know. But the good thing is, we ain't gonna get caught. So we don't gotta worry about it, alright?" He says, assuring himself more than trying to assure the other. They hadn't been caught yet, after all. It's not like they would be doing anything different that they were already doing anyway. It didn't seem like it'd be too hard to keep a secret.

 

The sniper scans the kid’s face one more time, searching for any doubt. Once this started he highly doubted he’d be able to stop. His hands slide up from Jim’s arms to the sides of his neck, his thumbs framing his burning cheeks. He closes that last inch gap between them, and the second their chests press together, the scout goes submissive and sinks against the door.

 

This kid never goes submissive for anyone. He never backs down or shuts up or gives in. That must mean he feels pretty strongly about the sniper. It’s all the permission Jack needs.

 

He knows he must taste like the acid-piss booze the kid brought, as well as the cigarette still burning in the ash tray, but that didn’t stop scout the first time. He presses his lips against the kid’s again, determined to do it right this time, his hands still holding his face steady on the off chance that he’ll swoon.

 

He feels his knees go weak at the contact, his hands gripping tight at the sniper's shoulders so he can support himself. His head tilts slightly as he allowed the kiss to be deepened, his nostrils flaring as his inhales sharply, refusing to let the kiss break, completely submissive to the man who has him pressed against the wall.

 

The kid’s mouth tastes like the same alcohol, so it’s not a complete loss. He doesn’t seem to be backing down, either, in typical scout fashion. He pinches his jaw open with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, while his left snakes around to press against scout’s lower back, pulling them closer together. As soon as the scout’s teeth part, he really lets him have it, his tongue verily molesting the younger man’s mouth.

 

Eventually he has to break the kiss, not because he’s out of breath (being a veteran slut, he’s had considerable experience kissing and has mastered the art of breathing through his nose) but because he really needs to taste more of this kid. He presses wet kisses to his neck, wedging his knee in between the young man’s thighs.

 

“So,” his voice is so low that the natural growl has come out. “ _Do_ you know the mechanics? How this works?”

 

James pushes up against his knee almost the instant he feels it pressed between his legs, panting softly to catch his breath. He obviously isn't nearly as experienced as the other man, but he's not sure if Jack knows the extent of his inexperience. He chews on his lower lip, his head tilting slightly to give the sniper more room. Honestly, he's pretty much clueless about how all of this worked. He isn't even completely sure how sex with a woman works. He doesn't want to look stupid though.

 

"I uhm… kind... of?" He lies, just a little.

 

The sniper stops dead in his tracks, his mouth half-open in a neck kiss, and pulls back to look at the younger man.

 

“You’ve no idea, do you?” he asks. His expression doesn’t change when the scout grimaces in embarrassment. He sighs and knocks his forehead to the scout’s. “That might make things a little more difficult. If I explain it to you, might scare you off.”

 

"Then don't tell me." He says, some of his nervousness showing through in his voice. "Just do it." It's not that he was having second thoughts about it all. It was just the fact that he was potentially about to lose his virginity was slightly intimidating, considering he wasn't familiar with receiving any pleasure from anything that wasn't his hand.

 

“Just do it,” the sniper repeats, his eyes hooding and his brows raising. “That’s a motto to live by.”

 

“What’s the problem!” the scout says defensively.

 

A quiet falls over them for a few seconds.

 

“It goes in your butt, kid.”

 

More silence, an expression of understanding dawns on the kid’s face.

 

“ _In_ it?”

 

“In it.”

 

“All the way in?”

 

“That’s the idea.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Neither of them really move. Scout stops making eye contact.

 

“You wanna stop?” the sniper offers reluctantly.

 

He sucks his lips into his mouth in thought. He trusted the other, he really did. But on the other hand... _in_ his butt?

 

"..It ain't gonna hurt is it?" He can't help but ask.

 

“If it did, do you think people would do it?” the sniper snorts. “Do you think _I_ would do it? I mean, yeah, it can. It can hurt a lot. Assumin’ neither party knows what the hell they’re doin’, or they go in dry, or they don’t prepare the taker. But I got experience _and_ Vaseline.”

 

He hesitates for a moment, before nodding. There has to be some sort of appeal in it, right? "Yeah, yeah… keep goin' then, I guess I can do that." He decides, his grip still tight on the sniper's shoulders.

 

The next thing he knows he’s being lifted up into strong arms, and sat down on the table so they’re less cramped. Sniper catches the bottle before it has a chance to topple over completely and sets it behind them in the sink so no amount of the camper rocking will make it fall off the counter.

 

He wraps his arms around the scout’s waist and pulls him close, right on the edge of the table, and kisses him again. But this time it’s brief, because he wants to pick up from where they left off just a couple feet away, and pulls at the collar of his shirt to kiss at his shoulder. Fed up with the cloth restricting his reach, he rucks it up the kid’s back and yanks it over his head to toss it to the floor.

 

“God you’re skinny,” he remarks off-handedly, running his hands down the scout’s toned, slim torso. He doesn’t give the kid a chance to shoot back a snarky comment, though. Before he can even say a word, the sniper is pulling him bodily by the hips in order to grind between his legs, sinking his teeth into his shoulder just enough to make him groan and sucking away the redness.

His back arches, pressing closer against the sniper as he feels wandering hands on his torso. "Fuck… " He groans softly, his fingers finding their way through the older man's short hair, curling and tugging at it lightly as he feels the teeth sink into his shoulder. His skin is already hot and flushed from desire, breath heavy. His hips roll down against the grinding, arousal starting to build up, already needing some sort of contact.

 

“Tell me what you’ve done before,” the sniper urges, “I gotta know what I’m workin’ with here.”

 

That’s at least part of the reason he wants to know, anyway. He thinks he should probably keep his voyeuristic tendencies a secret for the time being. The kid doesn’t need to know how he gets off on stories of other people fucking.

 

"What I've done?" His hands slide down to Jack's shoulders, feeling his face flush even deeper. Oh, this was slightly embarrassing. "I'm kinda… a virgin. Haven't really done much a anything besides ya know. Gettin' off myself."

 

That’s a word Jack hasn’t heard in a long time. Virgin.

 

He leans back to look at the younger man. A virgin. The concept hadn’t even occurred to him. He figured he’d never been with a man, but a virgin, completely?

 

“Seriously?” he says. “How?”

 

“How? The hell you mean, how?” scout sits back, affronted.

 

“I mean, look at you. You’re… well, young, and fit an’ not exactly hard on the eyes,” sniper mutters. “Regular hunk o’spunk.”

 

"Yeah well, try tellin' that to everyone who rejected me." He huffs, slightly annoyed. What a stupid question. How.

 

“It’s probably cause you’re annoyin’. Their loss, I suppose,” sniper hums.

 

“Hey!”

 

The sniper cuts him off with another kiss, and appeases the irritated scout by taking his package in hand. The older man’s hands aren’t exactly small, and they certainly aren’t weak in any respect, proved by how masterfully he massages scout’s dick through his pants.

 

He sucks the younger man’s lower lip into his mouth, worrying it between his teeth gently, his free hand cupping the back of his neck to hold him in place. Squirmy little roo keeps bucking like a lunatic.

 

The grip he has on the sniper's shoulders tighten, before letting go just to wrap his arm around them, holding onto him tight, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. His moan is muffled against Jack's mouth, hips continuing to buck into the rubbing and squeezing. Just like any other time, he's definitely not going to be very quiet.

 

His legs, which were apparently a lot stronger than they looked, find their way around Jack's waist, tightening around him. He pulls away from the kiss for air, panting heavily, tiny noises leaving him. They had barely even started and he felt like he was going to melt from the pulses of pleasure that were surging through him with every squeeze of the other's hand.

 

"Shit, yeah, yeah, that's great, more, gimme more…" He moans out, leaning in to bury his face in the other's neck.

 

“How much more?” sniper’s voice goes low and gruff again, breathing in the younger man’s ear. “You want my mouth? Never even had someone go down on you, right? Curious?”

 

Sniper's voice sends a shiver running down his spine, his breath hitching. He could get off just by listening to the other speak, he bets. "Oh shit, yeah, please just… Fuck, do it." He groans lowly, pressing further into the sniper's hand.

 

“I think I like the ‘please’,” sniper chuckles as he takes a knee in the cramped space. He tugs at the scout’s belt until he finally works the double-clip clasp and discards it with his shirt on the floor, unclipping the set of three hooks that fastened the waistband closed, and then jerks down the zipper. “Christ, mate, it’s like disarmin’ a bomb down here.” He mutters when he finally has the younger man’s pants pulled down to his thighs.

 

He’s not entirely surprised by scout’s plain white briefs. He actually wears them quite well, they fit snugly and it gives an edge of youth and innocence to contrast their current situation. Jack makes good use of the slit in the front of the kid’s briefs, slotting his cock through the hole.

 

It’s a testament to Jim’s youth, how erect he is despite such little stimulation. His dick is shapely, not overlarge or too small for that matter, tip glistening and red and exposed. Jack is still startled every time he sees a cut dick (he thinks it looks unfinished) but he doesn’t dwell on it too long, because the kid wriggles and fucking _whines_.

 

Not one to beat around the bush in any circle of his life, the sniper opens and then closes his mouth around the majority of Jim’s cock. It’s a perfect girth, just enough to fill his mouth, just long enough for the head to sit firmly on the very back curve of his tongue and press into the back of his throat when he sucks him completely in.

 

When he feels the warmth of the other's mouth around his cock, he gasps in a breath of air, his back arching. His hands quickly find their way to the top of the sniper's head, fingers curling in the short hair, attempting to grab on. "Holy shit-" He moans out, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as his hips push up.

 

He's almost embarrassed with how much noise he's making. He must seem ridiculous to the other man, but he had little room to care. The feeling of the other's tongue massaging the underside of his cock as he sucked sharply around it was just too great. He's fantasized about someone going down on him countless times, but nothing that he could've imagined was ever as great as how this actually felt. He only hoped he'd be able to last long enough to actually be fucked.

 

Sucking cock has always appealed to Jack. He’s always had an oral fixation. Chewed on straw when he was a kid, chewed gum in class and got written up for it almost every day, chewed his lips to shreds in winter, and eventually picked up a smoking habit for the sensation alone.

 

He’ll never forget the first cock he sucked. He was nineteen, the man had a motorcycle and smelled like leather. It was rushed and sloppy in an alley behind the butcher’s. The man called him “kiddo” and petted his hair. From that moment on he was hooked.

 

Since then, every cock he sucked was like perfecting an art. Every single man he went down on gave him a thrill. He was equally gifted and enthusiastic when nestled between a woman’s thighs, but there was something much more exhilarating about the forbidden fruit men offered. He never bothered counting, but the numbers are probably in the high twenties. Which is a lot of dicks.

 

He doesn’t really take into account the effect his skill is having on the virgin. He’s too absorbed in the feeling of the scout’s cock on his tongue to listen to any warnings he might have about his orgasm fast approaching.

 

Scout's breathing grows heavier and heavier as sniper's mouth works around him, a string of curses leaving his mouth as he only pulls his head in closer. Pleasure surges through his body in waves, his mouth hung open.

 

He feels a pressure growing in his stomach, and he knows that if he doesn't stop soon he's going to lose it. Normally he'd be ashamed at how quickly the other was able to bring him over the edge, but he can't think of anything other than how amazing he feels. It was obvious that the sniper had some sort of experience with this type of thing. He pulls back on Jack's hair in an attempt to get him to stop, not wanting it to be over just yet.

 

"Shit, shit, ya gotta stop, I'm gonna come- Fuck, Jack-!" He moans out, nails scraping at his scalp.

 

The sniper gives a throaty moan when the kid calls out his name. He doesn’t get to hear it very often, seeing as he almost never tells his one-night-stands his name. Jim’s voice cracked in the middle of his name, and he can feel the way his thighs are trembling on either side of his head.

 

He gives another couple sucks for good luck before pulling back entirely. The scout slumps on the small table, his shoulders pressed up against the glass of the window, shaking.

 

“Would you like to move this up to the bed?” the sniper asks, jerking his head towards the mattress lofted over the cabin of the camper.

 

He glances up toward the mattress, letting out a shaky breath, trying to regain himself, his head still in a slight haze from his almost orgasm. He gives a nod, trying to catch his breath, offering the other half a smirk. "Oh hell yeah, I'd like to move this up to the bed."

 

Jack nudges the half-naked scout up the ladder to the mattress, and quickly de-clutters the area of empty jars and skin mags and the scout’s discarded bat. He grabs the jar of Vaseline from his wardrobe and tosses it up onto the bed before dragging himself up the ladder. He palms at his groin with a grunt as the exertion sends a desperate pulse of blood through his trapped cock.

 

James gets a good hold of the sniper as he joins him on the mattress, pulling him on top of himself. His shaking hands slightly as they trace up the other's torso, fumbling and cursing as he tries to get his shirt unbuttoned. Stupid fucking buttons. Why did shirts come with so many? It'd probably be easier if his hands weren't shaking so much.

 

Eventually he gets the shirt undone, sliding it off of his shoulders. His hands slide back down his torso, threading through his short, soft body hair, stopping right as they got to the sniper's pants. He hesitates for a moment, second guessing himself, though only for a moment. He lets out a small sigh as he fumbles with yet another button, this time the one on the front of the sniper's jeans, before getting them open, sliding the zipper down. He captures his lips in another deep and heated kiss, mostly to distract his mind for having any second thoughts as he slides his hand in the front of what he assumes is boxers, fingers brushing over the other's cock.

 

He pulls away from the kiss, eyes widening a bit as he gets his hand wrapped around him. "Jesus Christ, what the fuck are ya hidin' in there?" He asks, quick to tug down the other's underwear, curious to see how big he actually is.

 

He glances down, his mouth hanging open as his eyes catch glimpse of the other's cock, a little longer than his hand from wrist to fingertips and thicker than the barrel of a pistol. "Holy shit what the fuck, how the hell did you get so freakin' big?! You're tellin' me that shit's gonna fit in my ass?"

 

The sniper looks down at his penis with a frown. “It ain’t _that_ big. Sort of average. Length, anyway.” He looks back up. “Never had a complaint before. You’d be surprised how far you can stretch.”

 

"Ya still bigger than me." He grumbles, giving the other man a slight squeeze. "Yeah, I'm trusting you on this one." He says as his thumb brushes over the tip of his cock. He's not entirely sure what to do, especially because the other seems, well, different. He wasn't exactly sure what to expect, however. He didn't really have any experience with dicks expect for his own, so he didn't have much to compare the other to. It didn't really do all that much to settle his nerves about all of this, however.

 

The sniper lets his head droop against the scout’s shoulder, giving a few stifled huffs of pleasure. Jim’s technique is solid, albeit clumsy. But Jack wasn’t expecting any kind of enlightenment from the kid’s touch. He presses a few messy kisses to his newly acquired lover’s neck, pressing his nose into the red mark he’d given him before.

 

“You want me to show you?” he asks the kid, breathing down his neck and nibbling on his ear. “I’ll prove it to you. Lemme drive you crazy, kid, come on.”

 

He gives a nod, his head tilting to give the other more access to his neck, trying to hold back soft huffs and moans. "Yeah, shit, show me, do it," He pants out, his hips lifting up off of the mattress beneath him slightly, to press up against Jack's lower stomach in need, his chest moving steadily with his heavy breaths. "Please, c'mon."

 

“I think I like this compliant Jimbo,” Jack teases and kisses his way down the scout’s hairless chest. He yanks off the kid’s shoes and tosses them to the floor, one of them lands on the table but the sniper can’t be bothered by it right now. He decides to leave on the kid’s long socks while he works his pants and briefs down off his legs. He’s almost completely naked underneath him now, and Jack almost bows under a surge of dominate pride.

 

“When’s the last time you showered?” he asks, and chuckles when the kid wrinkles his nose at him. “It’s relevant, I promise.”

 

“Yesterday,” the scout says. “But why – ”

 

He’s cut off when he’s suddenly flipped over onto his stomach. He starts to protest, but when Jack’s hands smooth down his back and his wide, strong fingers sink into his bottom, he can’t remember what he was going to object to. Jack leans down and kisses the nape of his neck, sinking his teeth into his shoulder and sucking marks into his shoulder blades.

 

The kid’s definitely telling the truth. He still tastes faintly of soap behind the salty tang of dried sweat. He kisses all the way down the groove of the scout’s spine and rubs his palms down his toned thighs. He earns a jolt and a hesitant moan when he slides his thumbs up to the crease where his ass and thigh met, and then higher, pressing his cheeks apart ever so slightly.

 

“Still good?” he asks the kid when his mouth is just inches from his bottom.

 

He sucks in a breath when he feels the sniper getting lower and lower, stopping when he gets right near his ass. He has a fairly good idea he knows where this is going, and so far he doesn't have any objections. Tonight was going to be a night of new experiences anyway, he had to keep a fairly open mind. He trusted the other knew exactly what he was doing. So far he's proved to be nothing but experienced.

 

He nods, turning his head back to look at the other as best as he could, "Yeah, yeah, we're still good, just…" He bites down on his lower lip, pushing his hips back, starting to grow needy from the lack of stimulation.

 

The sniper doesn’t need to ask twice. He presses right in without hesitation, open-mouthed and eager. It boosts his confidence significantly when the scout shouts into his pillow and fists the blankets. He pulls at the kid’s hips so they arch up just far enough for him to grab his cock and press it down backwards so it’s flat against the sheets, never breaking contact with Jim’s hole once.

 

Tracing his thumb across the underside of the scout’s flattened cock, he tilts his head slightly for better access and applies a little teeth, just enough to have him yelping and squirming.

 

"Oh, fuck!" He gasps out, burying his face into his pillow to muffle the noises leaving him. His hips jerk at the feeling of the other's touch, only to push right back against him. Moans and gasps leave him as cock twitched from the pleasure jolting through his body in waves, his hands tightening and tugging at the sheets.

 

He wasn't so sure what he had been so hesitant and nervous about before, but now any second thoughts had left him and the only thing he was able to focus on was how great the other's mouth felt and how much more he needed.

 

"Oh shit, oh fuck, fuck fuck, Jack, Jack please, more, fuck please I need more-!" His voice hitches an octave as he moans out his words, practically begging.

 

The sniper’s cock throbs so hard it hurts, his toes curling in the boots he still hasn’t bothered taking off. This kid is just too fucking much.

 

He presses the tip of his thumb against the scout’s hole and pushes it in. The fluttering muscle makes way for him without a fuss, and Jack takes advantage of the softness by pressing his tongue inside right beside the digit. He fists loosely at his own cock with his free hand, groaning at the sharp musk on his tongue.

 

"Oh god!" He lets out a high pitched moan, tightening around the sniper just for a moment, before relaxing again. His chest heaves with heavy pants, biting down on the pillow beneath him to stop the moans that continue to flow from his mouth with every movement he feels inside of himself, his cock starting to leak at the tip with need. Never before has he experienced this level of pleasure, and he's sure it's only going to get better.

 

The sniper pulls back panting, and sits back for a moment just to watch. Jim’s hole is red and a little shiny, pulsing between tight and relax, searching for more stimulation. He slides his thumb out of the muscle, grinning crookedly when the scout whines and kicks his hips back in pursuit.

 

He reaches for the Vaseline and unscrews the cap, setting it on the long, thin window right next to the lofted bed. He works his fingers into the viscous solution, made a little thinner by spitting in it in the past.

 

The sniper doesn’t need to ask if the scout is ready. He’ll just get another long stream of pleads that, while nice on the ears, waste time. He needs to get inside this kid as soon as he can.

 

One finger slides with ease into the relaxed muscles of the eager scout, and he gives a sound of satisfaction when he feels how tight he is around his finger.

 

His breath hitches when he feels Jack's finger push into him. It takes him a moment to get used to the finger. This is unlike anything he's ever really experienced before, and the sensation is amazing. Jack definitely wasn't lying about this driving him crazy. But he needs more.

 

"Shit, Jack…" he moans the other's name out softly, turning his head from the pillow so he can look back at him to the best of his abilities, his face flushed bright, eyes glazed over with lust.

 

The sniper struggles to swallow a lump in his throat when he takes in the kid’s expression. He hasn’t dealt with a virgin in so long, he forgot how honest they were with their pleasure. His cock pulses again, reminding him that he needs to fuck this kid or it might rip open from the pressure.

 

He jack-knifes his finger into the kid, ripping wails out of his throat that would make someone think he was being murdered. He almost stops once when he gets a little too loud, afraid that he’s hurting the scout, but the kid’s hand snaps back and takes hold of his wrist, and he looks over his shoulder and growls “Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop old man.”

 

One finger turns into two, the sniper saws them into the kid, twisting his guts up with nothing but two fingers. He leans over him and sucks another mark into his neck while he spreads his fingers wide and screws them in deep.

 

A stream of loud cries and curses of pleasure leave the scout’s mouth as the fingers spread and pound inside him, his hands fisting at the sheets under him, threatening to tear them. His head is spinning from this new pleasure, and he needs Jack now.

 

"Jack, fuck fuck- please, fuck me, fuck me now, I need it, shit shit, do it-!" He gasps out, his hips rolling back against the fingers, desperate to get them into himself deeper.

 

Sniper’s eyes go dark as he takes in the sight of young man underneath him. Christ, he’s practically a baby. Barely old enough to drink, he doesn’t even have any hair on his chest. He’s skinny and toned as he is, he looks so weak compared to the older man. He’s the picture of youth, and he wants _Jack_. He can’t think too deep into it or emotions will start to bubble up, so he distracts himself by fisting a generous amount of the sticky lubricant over his cock.

 

Jim’s body is tight but willing, and yields easily to his girth. He grabs the back of the kid’s neck to hold him still, putting almost all his weight on his nape while he pushes in. It’s tight – so fucking tight he could start crying.

 

A shout leaves the scout's mouth as he feels the other man push inside of him. He can feel himself stretch around the sniper, squirming slightly in discomfort, trying to adjust to the other's girth. He bites down on the pillow in front of his face, breathing heavily through his nose, sweat starting to drip off of his face. His legs tremble slightly as he pushes his hips back against the sniper, desperate to feel the mind blowing pleasure once again, trying to ignore the slight sting of being stretched as far as he was. Jack had proven to be right about all of this so far, he still trusted him that this would get better.

 

“Oh, bloody hell, kid,” the sniper growls through clenched teeth. Sweat beads and rolls down his brow, the whole camper feels a hundred degrees warmer. The pressure on his cock is enormous, the heat volcanic. It’s so intense he could write a novel about it. The scout’s muscles are fluttering around him, struggling and inexperienced.

 

He leans down and kisses the kid’s neck to try and get him to relax, his own legs spread wide across his hips. He’s in all the way to the hilt, it feels like the scout is about to shake apart. He can hear half-gasps swallowed up in Jim’s mouth, dying into the pillow, and that won’t do. Gently, the sniper coaxes the pillowcase out of the scout’s mouth, replacing it with two of his fingers to distract the kid.

 

The scout's mouth closes around the fingers as his teeth sink into them for a moment, before unclenching around them. He huffs heavily through his nose, before starting to suck on the fingers in his mouth, his tongue swirling and gliding against the digits, trying to distract his mind from the slight pain from the other, tears starting to prick at the corners of his eyes.

 

He rolls his hips back again once he starts to adjust to the older man's size, his already quiet moan muffled by the sniper's fingers. The motion of his hips continue, though slow and a bit uneven, trying to get Jack to move, finding pleasure in movements of the other's cock in and out of him.

 

The sniper leans back and slides his fingers out of scout’s mouth, tugging at his hips until he gets him to arch his hips off the mattress. Given room, he reaches beneath the kid and fists his cock with his slippery fingers.

 

He grinds a little deeper, waits to hear a genuine moan out of the kid, and as soon as he gets that throaty expletive, he starts in on the main event. He’s still not too rough, gliding in and out of the scout at a pace that he should be able to cope with. He wants to fuck him like they’re both about to die, like the world is ending right outside the camper, fuck him until the kid screams or cries or both would be great, too. He wants to hold him down and be rough with him until he passes out, get him off so many times that he complains of oversensitivity.

 

But he’s pretty sure that’s all fantasy. If he jackhammered the kid he’d just complain and probably leave. He takes his time, rolling in and out in steady movements, ready to kick it up at the drop of a hat.

 

Jim's hips jerk up into the sniper's hand, his breathing coming out as a shaky groan of pleasure. His body rocks with the motion of the other's, his hips pushing back to meet Jack's with almost every thrust. He buries his face back into the pillow, the low noises from him getting muffled.

 

He's considerably quieter now than he was when he was only dealing with Jack's fingers. He needed more. He needed him to go faster, he needed him harder, he just needed him more. He turns his head from the pillow to breath, groaning out.

 

"C'mon, shit, faster, more, gimme more, shit," He pants out, his hips beginning to grind back against the sniper's.

 

“Greedy little anklebiter,” the sniper teases, but complies. It’s not like it’s a hassle for him to obey. He releases the kid’s dick, only for the scout to take up where he left off, while he leans out over him and really lets him have it. He triples the pace, trying to get that mouth shooting off again. Nothing’s more satisfying than hearing the kid submissive and reverent.

 

His quiet moans and grunts are quickly replaced with cries and gasps of pleasure. He claws at the sheets underneath him with his free hand, his other pumping himself as he's pounded from behind. He can feel the van rocking slightly under them, the bed creaking with their movements.

 

"Fuck fuck, yes shit, yes yes, more, fuck, more please, Jack!" He moans out loudly as pleasure shoots through him with every thrust of the other's hips, sending his head spinning. He's thankful that they're somewhat secluded, or else somebody would definitely have been able to hear his moans and cries coming from inside of the van.

 

“More, more, more,” the sniper mocks. “I’ll show you more.”

 

He grabs the young man around the waist and flips them over so he’s on his back, the kid lying on top of his chest. He plants his boots firmly on the mattress and hooks his hands under the scout’s knees, spreading his legs wide, and fucks up into him rough enough to render him absolutely limp.

 

Head hung over sniper’s shoulder, mouth open in a string of unashamed moans directly by the older man’s ear, the scout is fucked properly senseless, just like he’d been craving for weeks. He never knew what to expect in his fantasies, but he never could have thought of this.

 

“Hell, kid, Christ,” the sniper curses through gritted teeth, his head tipping back as he fills the scout at such a quick cadence neither of them can barely breathe.

 

The noises, and loud curses, and pleas, and begs that flowed out of the scout's mouth between gasps for air easily filled the camper. He felt like he was going to completely melt into the man beneath him, his entire body feeling weak and completely under the other man's control as he fucked him mercilessly, though his grip around the sniper only got tighter, holding onto him as if his life depended on his, his nails digging and scraping at his own thighs.

 

He knows he isn't going to last much longer at all. He's actually fairly surprised he was able to make it this long. Though, from the looks of it, it didn't seem like Jack was going to last much longer either.

 

One pump is all it takes from the sniper’s calloused hand over the kid’s cock. He shouts his climax, shooting over his own belly, his back arching up high. His toes curl and his mouth hangs open as he’s fucked right through the single most important orgasm of his life so far.

 

It feels like he’s being enlightened, brought to salvation with nothing but the old man’s dick. It can’t possibly get any better than this.

 

But then it does, because the old guy comes, too, and he’s filled with the strangest warmth he’s ever experienced. He feels wet and his guts feel all slithery, he feels used up and filled up and spent in every sense of the word.

 

Jack rolls him over gently on his side, curled around the younger man, panting into his neck, one arm curled around his waist, still buried in to the hilt. “Lordy,” he croaks hoarsely, rubbing his nose across the kid’s neck.

 

Jim can't even think straight, let alone speak for a good thirty seconds. He's panting heavily as he tries to catch his breath, responding to Jack's motion by tilting his head slightly, leaning into him. He smirks lightly, turning his head to bury his face in the other's short hair.

 

"Jesus fuck." He chuckles lightly, his arm moving up to drape over Jack's shoulder. "Wow…damn, that was. Yeah, damn."

 

“Think you’d be up for doin’ it again at some point?” the sniper asks, kissing behind the young man’s ear to distract him from the odd feeling of pulling out, and he smoothes his hand down his back.

 

"You kiddin' me? I'd go again right now if we could." He laughs softly, his voice sounding a bit strained for once, but not quite hoarse. "I'm crashin' here tonight, just so you know." He says with a yawn, not letting go of the sniper.

 

The sniper doesn’t say anything. They’re facing the wrong way on the bed, the pillow down by their feet, but it doesn’t really matter. Jack sleeps without his pillow frequently, prone to tossing it off the bed in the middle of the night or just using his own forearm instead. The scout seems perfectly content to use his arm, too.

 

The bed is too small for the both of them, but they’re so satisfied. Shakespearian indeed, star-crossed lovers and all that, Jack doesn’t want to think about it too much. He just wants to live it while it lasts.

 

Jim turns over, squished between the cold wall and Jack's warm, sticky body, and he honestly couldn't be more comfortable. He knows he's going to be sore as hell in the morning, but he could care less at that moment.

 

He looks down at Jack, his fingers stroking absent-mindedly at the back of his neck. He knew he had really gotten himself into some deep shit now, and he knew this was a whole new level of stupid for him, and he can honestly say he hasn't been happier.


End file.
